It took less than almost no time at all. Jill Carroll's release from her three-month captivity in Iraq immediately prompted observers to wonder about her innocence, with insinuations abundant that the story is far more than what meets either eye or ear. Something fishy is going on, or so buzzes the lines of the infoplanet. I am glad to say that I will not add speculation to the augury; visitors eager for rumor-mongering here will be disappointed by my reticence.
Minutes ago Boston talk radio personalities Jim Braude and Margery Eagan scoffed at the instant-on rumor mill; Braude lamented the lack of trust and restraint in the whole story. Additionally he felt that the best thing for all observers to do is wait for clarity, for presently we "simply do not know." And what we don't know should give us pause.
Where does the cynicism come from? Why is the blogosphere revved up by this sort of story? Is it that bloggers again are looking for something to "out" or "expose", like the CBS 60 Minutes story based on clearly forged documents back in 2004? Are certain bloggers hoping to become the story themselves, taking the front page away from a person whose release from captivity is above-the-fold news in most of the nation's newspapers? Is one blogger hoping to make news that he broke the story from his laptop while lunching at Panera Bread? Is this cynicism the legacy of our culture, where everything, including grief, is political and politicizable (if that's a word); where authority is doubted at every turn? Is this all the Watergate legacy, with earnest writers working for the next big blockbuster and everyone doubting whatever is offered as true?
Let it be said that much of the cynicism is born of the news media themselves. For too many journalists have fooled us, have defrauded us of our trust, and their profession of its integrity. Jason Blair at the New York Times did us no favors. Dan Rather did little to make us trust the news; photographer Brian Walski of the LA Times reminded us that photography is a manipulative medium. Even if corruption of the news (and the deception of our senses) happens infrequently, it is the exceptions that remain with us, a fact consistent with news itself, where only anomalies are reported. We don't usually remember the things that go right; we remember the things that have gone wrong. And at critical times in recent history the news media have gone very wrong. Sadly, they still do.
So this is the mental milieu within which Jill Carroll's kidnapping and release is to be poked and prodded. The scepticism is not of her making (I assume, of course), nor is it mine or yours. It is the result of over-reaching, over-zealous journalists intent on fudging reality for personal gain. One hopes that Ms. Carroll's life over the last 3 months has not been a work of fiction authored by her. I doubt that she would be so opportunistic.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Bushwhacking (For Real) Toward Paradise
It is time to run for the hills.
While walking through the woods the other day, scrambling over log and ledge and sniffing my way through brambles, I stumbled onto a dead coyote, frozen in the snow. It looked a perfect canine, lying on its side, resting in that deep sleep that prompted the flight response in my feet. But I resisted long enough to see that the coyote's mouth was open––as if he was panting in the big chill––and that his eyes were gone, perhaps plucked out by a recently-returned turkey vulture impatient for the big thaw.
So far this year I've only enjoyed a few weeks of frequent hiking, but I've already found three moose antlers, shed in the silence of winter and now evident, for the observant and eager, in the snowless wilds. It is my hobby not really to search for these gigantic reminders of the ineffable, but to bushwhack through large tracts of forest merely for the adventure. For one rarely finds anything of note on a path, even the less-travelled path of Robert Frost's idealized poem. Paths are fine for getting started, but it's the bushwhacker who finds the treasures of forest, fen and field. Bushwhacking is not about making one's own path, for that's impossible and even undesirable for the bushwhacker, for he (or she) rarely returns to travel the same way through the unpathed places of the the planet: there is no path left in the bushwhacker's wake (unless he or she traverses sensitive soils or tramples sensitive plants). Frost is probably right about finding what made "all the difference" for him along the less-travelled path; but it is the travelling through the uncharted and unknown that gives life its thrill. At least it thrills me.
One day I climbed a rather steep-sloped but small mountain and found, atop a boulder on the mountain's summit, a perfectly intact beaver's skull. I wondered about its provenance. Was this an overly-ambitious beaver kicked out of the colony (young beavers get booted out of their parents' colony after two to three years) intent on building something really great for himself, perhaps in an "I'll show them" huff and puff? Was he a dreamer with designs on building a summit lodge? Was he on a mission for help; was he out on a diplomatic mission to a foreign colony, perhaps to broker a trade deal or gnaw out a peace agreement? Was he on a religious pilgrimage, or was he a religious leader, even a mystic, the very object of legend and myth among those who remain close to stream and sticks? Did he see, from the muddied edge of his dam, a bush on fire that did not burn?
More likely he was a victim of a coyote attack, his bones scattered to the four corners of the world, his head carried to a boulder between hungry jaws. Maybe a fox stole the skull of a dead beaver killed by a tree it dropped on itself (this happens); perhaps even a raccoon or black bear carried the carcass summit-ward, the skeleton scattered elsewhere in the snipping and snarling of a coyote pack. Regardless of the skull's provenance, it is a story that begins in the murky depths of the forest, reaching back into the very beginnings of time. For something was wandering about the woods looking for food; finding the skull (and perhaps more), the creature climbed to the top of the hills, claws gripping granite and tearing at slippery moss. It set itself atop a boulder (nature's simple fortresses), and in the silence of the night feasted in the modesty of the wilderness. In its wake is all the power of the universe.
The beaver's story––whatever it may have been––carried to the summit of Ball Hill, was taken into the very depths of another creature, adding life through death. And that beaver's story––which is unknowable–– was nonetheless taken into my very depths: it is with me, shuffling in the darkness and passed along to you, like a shared meal or even the stuff of legends.
In every square inch of the unpathed earth, there are stories like this, billions of them. But there are few stories on life's well-trod paths, for any oft-used path, be it the trail up one's favorite mountain or the I-95 corridor, is marked by its lack of life beneath the foot: there is a contraceptive trampling of foot and smearing of macadam that marks life's most-frequented paths. Yes, there is the collision of forest and machine along any interstate in America, with roadkills ground to a reddened forgetfulness. But such stories seem predictable, with countless drivers wondering before the great crush, "What is that dang deer doing in the middle of the road?"; while countless dead animals must have wondered, "What is that machine doing in the middle of the woods, and why does it attack merely to leave me in the waning artificial light, my body twisted against a barrier?"
I have meandered here, wandering without any clear destination. But that's OK. It is how I find the things that make life more than a beaten path.
It is time to run for the hills indeed.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
While walking through the woods the other day, scrambling over log and ledge and sniffing my way through brambles, I stumbled onto a dead coyote, frozen in the snow. It looked a perfect canine, lying on its side, resting in that deep sleep that prompted the flight response in my feet. But I resisted long enough to see that the coyote's mouth was open––as if he was panting in the big chill––and that his eyes were gone, perhaps plucked out by a recently-returned turkey vulture impatient for the big thaw.
So far this year I've only enjoyed a few weeks of frequent hiking, but I've already found three moose antlers, shed in the silence of winter and now evident, for the observant and eager, in the snowless wilds. It is my hobby not really to search for these gigantic reminders of the ineffable, but to bushwhack through large tracts of forest merely for the adventure. For one rarely finds anything of note on a path, even the less-travelled path of Robert Frost's idealized poem. Paths are fine for getting started, but it's the bushwhacker who finds the treasures of forest, fen and field. Bushwhacking is not about making one's own path, for that's impossible and even undesirable for the bushwhacker, for he (or she) rarely returns to travel the same way through the unpathed places of the the planet: there is no path left in the bushwhacker's wake (unless he or she traverses sensitive soils or tramples sensitive plants). Frost is probably right about finding what made "all the difference" for him along the less-travelled path; but it is the travelling through the uncharted and unknown that gives life its thrill. At least it thrills me.
One day I climbed a rather steep-sloped but small mountain and found, atop a boulder on the mountain's summit, a perfectly intact beaver's skull. I wondered about its provenance. Was this an overly-ambitious beaver kicked out of the colony (young beavers get booted out of their parents' colony after two to three years) intent on building something really great for himself, perhaps in an "I'll show them" huff and puff? Was he a dreamer with designs on building a summit lodge? Was he on a mission for help; was he out on a diplomatic mission to a foreign colony, perhaps to broker a trade deal or gnaw out a peace agreement? Was he on a religious pilgrimage, or was he a religious leader, even a mystic, the very object of legend and myth among those who remain close to stream and sticks? Did he see, from the muddied edge of his dam, a bush on fire that did not burn?
More likely he was a victim of a coyote attack, his bones scattered to the four corners of the world, his head carried to a boulder between hungry jaws. Maybe a fox stole the skull of a dead beaver killed by a tree it dropped on itself (this happens); perhaps even a raccoon or black bear carried the carcass summit-ward, the skeleton scattered elsewhere in the snipping and snarling of a coyote pack. Regardless of the skull's provenance, it is a story that begins in the murky depths of the forest, reaching back into the very beginnings of time. For something was wandering about the woods looking for food; finding the skull (and perhaps more), the creature climbed to the top of the hills, claws gripping granite and tearing at slippery moss. It set itself atop a boulder (nature's simple fortresses), and in the silence of the night feasted in the modesty of the wilderness. In its wake is all the power of the universe.
The beaver's story––whatever it may have been––carried to the summit of Ball Hill, was taken into the very depths of another creature, adding life through death. And that beaver's story––which is unknowable–– was nonetheless taken into my very depths: it is with me, shuffling in the darkness and passed along to you, like a shared meal or even the stuff of legends.
In every square inch of the unpathed earth, there are stories like this, billions of them. But there are few stories on life's well-trod paths, for any oft-used path, be it the trail up one's favorite mountain or the I-95 corridor, is marked by its lack of life beneath the foot: there is a contraceptive trampling of foot and smearing of macadam that marks life's most-frequented paths. Yes, there is the collision of forest and machine along any interstate in America, with roadkills ground to a reddened forgetfulness. But such stories seem predictable, with countless drivers wondering before the great crush, "What is that dang deer doing in the middle of the road?"; while countless dead animals must have wondered, "What is that machine doing in the middle of the woods, and why does it attack merely to leave me in the waning artificial light, my body twisted against a barrier?"
I have meandered here, wandering without any clear destination. But that's OK. It is how I find the things that make life more than a beaten path.
It is time to run for the hills indeed.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Back Alley Border Patrol
It is worth noting that the arguments in favor of laxer immigration laws in the United States are structurally identical to pro-abortion arguments:
With so many millions of illegal immigrants inside this country already, and with thousands more entering every day, how are you going to enforce laws restricting them? And you know, even if you make immigration criminally illegal, people will STILL cross that border? Plus, if you build a wall across America's southern border, millions of immigrants will die as they seek to circumvent the law through the smugglers' back-alleys that lead to freedom.
There are even some who want to confer all American rights to illegal immigrants, making it, in a sense, a right to come to America on one's own private terms.
Interesting.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
With so many millions of illegal immigrants inside this country already, and with thousands more entering every day, how are you going to enforce laws restricting them? And you know, even if you make immigration criminally illegal, people will STILL cross that border? Plus, if you build a wall across America's southern border, millions of immigrants will die as they seek to circumvent the law through the smugglers' back-alleys that lead to freedom.
There are even some who want to confer all American rights to illegal immigrants, making it, in a sense, a right to come to America on one's own private terms.
Interesting.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
Prayers Answered?
Great news about Jill Carroll––the Christian Science Monitor reporter has been released without harm by her Iraqi kidnappers after 3 months of captivity. Our prayers were answered. Now it will be interesting to see how long it will be before conspiracy theories begin to brew about the whole ordeal.
Racist Facts: On The Dictionary Of Talk Radio
Hospitality is an inscrutable word. For if someone sends me an invitation to a party and then is rude to me at that party, even to the extent of ignoring me (this indeed has happened), I might begin to think my host invited me to submit to either his sadism or to my own self-abuse. I might even begin to think that hospitality was the sort of kindness that was meant to send me to the hospital, even the psychiatric hospital. I mean, I might think that a host is merely a person who takes another person hostage to inhospitality.
I have invited people here, to this rather sober salon, and I've tried to make them at the very least feel safe. Should a particularly petulant guest insult me to my face in the Comments section of each post, I have promised to treat that person with all due propriety. I am the host after all, and even if it means that as host I must endure my detractor's parasitic prose, so be it. It is what hospitality is all about: You shall be treated fairly, respectfully, and with grace.
But for the life of me I cannot figure out the hospitality of talk radio. Here one finds a host ostensibly inviting people to join him (or her) to "dialogue" and "debate in civil discourse", and yet at the slightest hint of a dialogue between interlocutors holding truly disparate views, the host usually turns dialogue to diatribe, with smatterings of abuse garnishing the canapés: the appetizers turn out, rather quickly, to be quite unappetizing and bitter. Oddly, people keep asking for more.
Last night was no exception as I listened to former Boston-based-now-nationally-syndicated master of soliloquy, Jay Severin, whose recent stint on MSNBC's The Situation with Tucker Carlson brought him some frequent TV face time. Mr. Severin received a call from a young man who took umbrage with Severin's observations around US immigration issues. Particularly, the young man averred that Severin's eloquent (he's always eloquent) litany of facts -- that the inner cities of America are rife with crime, illiteracy, poverty, and other such ills -- combined with the factual observation that such ills plague areas largely composed of minorities, amounted to racism. Moreover, the young man had the temerity to suggest that facts, in and of themselves, can be racist. Needless to say, the sharp-witted and sharp-tongued Severin scoffed at the idea that facts could be anything but coolly neutral, even value-less, devoid of any racial import or overtone. In his rebuttal, Severin cited dictionary entries of the word "racist"; his citations intimating that language was static––"racism" cannot mean anything but what the dictionary says it means (Severin forgets that dictionaries only list how words are used and not how they must be used). Severin also reminded listeners that he was of rather impressive intellectual stock, whereas his caller was not.
As Severin attempted to wrest the conversation toward something resembling a bad Socratic dialogue––where Severin would pose a question and yet would not restrain himself long enough to listen to his interlocutor's rather nuanced attempts to answer with some mindfulness of his own––Severin's scoffing only increased, even to the point where he was speaking over his guest's rather interesting and not at all antagonistic theory. And after the call was over and Severin returned from a commercial break to the blues music he allegedly adores, the scoffing could not be stopped, as he snidely suggested that he needed to be careful when he said that "blacks invented the blues," for such a statement of fact might be racist. Alas, I turned off the radio when Severin began his next segment with the proclamation that the argument facts can be racist is "the quintessence of the domestic threat to the United States Constitution that our Founding Fathers" were talking about.
Now quickly: Can a fact be racist? Well, what if I took five black men and five black women and put them in a cage (please, I am not advocating this), clinically observing them for 30 years, and then I published a factual article in a factual journal wherein I listed that the offspring of these black men and women tended toward incest, would that fact be racist? I think it would be. If I took a hundred thousand Jews and put them in a ghetto, let's say in Warsaw, and then I observed that the Jews seemed to be very shrewd at money-dealing on the black market and conniving in general, would that be a racist fact? I think it would be. What if I was a German scientist in 1944 and I observed that Jewish skin made for good soap, or effective lampshades? Would these not be "facts," and yet would they not also be "racist," making your very skin crawl?
I think they would.†
And what if I said that America's inner cities were rife with crime, with illegitimate children, absentee fathers, illiteracy and poverty everywhere, and that these things were mostly the plight of black families––would this, at least possibly, be the recitation of racist facts? Might not my litany of facts regarding the inner cities even begin to lead you to believe that blacks are lost, or incapable of saving themselves? Might my recitation of facts bias you against blacks; and might my recitation of facts also lead you to forget the broader causes of inner-city turmoil, perhaps even blinding you to the fact that inner-city blacks might in fact be living in a Warsaw ghetto, even a cage, surrounded by the barbed-wire of white institutional and political racism?
My broader point is that the caller to the Jay Severin radio program did something for me: he opened my mind to something I've never before seen or understood: statistics can not only lie, they may blind and mislead, and they may even fuel the very thing they were intended to suppress. Facts are not merely neutral, at least not always. When you hear the "facts" (from surveys) that the majority of Americans believed that Iraq had something to do with 9/11 and that most Americans who believed such an Iraq connection also watch Fox News, you are not entitled to believe that these are offered in cool detachment: these facts are meant to sway, intimidate, upbraid and even dehumanize. And if a person states that 40 million fetuses have been killed since Roe v. Wade became law, that person surely intends to sway you. In fact, people always use facts in order to sway you, perhaps often ignoring other, broader facts that might help you frame your thoughts more completely. "Facts" of this kind are not neutral, and you know it all too well: it is a fact that John Kerry "voted for the war before he voted against it"; it is a fact that George Bush "was only" in the Air National Guard in Texas. You get the idea.
And while the caller did something for me, he did nothing for Jay Severin, though I think had Mr. Severin actually been a proper, high-bred host (he is from a moneyed family); had Mr. Severin listened, he may have understood something very interesting and important: It is never too late to have one's mind opened; it is a good thing for even a host to learn something from his guests. But sadly the distance between hosting and hostility is not very great. Too bad Mr. Severin (and others of his medium) cannot keep the two words farther apart. But at least one is comforted knowing that Mr. Severin's dictionary is always nearby.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
†Let it be noted that I am even wary of fabricating facts for the sake of hypotheses or analogies. Even repeating news of an old crime might prompt a return to that sort of crime for some sick, imitative mind dwelling among us.
I have invited people here, to this rather sober salon, and I've tried to make them at the very least feel safe. Should a particularly petulant guest insult me to my face in the Comments section of each post, I have promised to treat that person with all due propriety. I am the host after all, and even if it means that as host I must endure my detractor's parasitic prose, so be it. It is what hospitality is all about: You shall be treated fairly, respectfully, and with grace.
But for the life of me I cannot figure out the hospitality of talk radio. Here one finds a host ostensibly inviting people to join him (or her) to "dialogue" and "debate in civil discourse", and yet at the slightest hint of a dialogue between interlocutors holding truly disparate views, the host usually turns dialogue to diatribe, with smatterings of abuse garnishing the canapés: the appetizers turn out, rather quickly, to be quite unappetizing and bitter. Oddly, people keep asking for more.
Last night was no exception as I listened to former Boston-based-now-nationally-syndicated master of soliloquy, Jay Severin, whose recent stint on MSNBC's The Situation with Tucker Carlson brought him some frequent TV face time. Mr. Severin received a call from a young man who took umbrage with Severin's observations around US immigration issues. Particularly, the young man averred that Severin's eloquent (he's always eloquent) litany of facts -- that the inner cities of America are rife with crime, illiteracy, poverty, and other such ills -- combined with the factual observation that such ills plague areas largely composed of minorities, amounted to racism. Moreover, the young man had the temerity to suggest that facts, in and of themselves, can be racist. Needless to say, the sharp-witted and sharp-tongued Severin scoffed at the idea that facts could be anything but coolly neutral, even value-less, devoid of any racial import or overtone. In his rebuttal, Severin cited dictionary entries of the word "racist"; his citations intimating that language was static––"racism" cannot mean anything but what the dictionary says it means (Severin forgets that dictionaries only list how words are used and not how they must be used). Severin also reminded listeners that he was of rather impressive intellectual stock, whereas his caller was not.
As Severin attempted to wrest the conversation toward something resembling a bad Socratic dialogue––where Severin would pose a question and yet would not restrain himself long enough to listen to his interlocutor's rather nuanced attempts to answer with some mindfulness of his own––Severin's scoffing only increased, even to the point where he was speaking over his guest's rather interesting and not at all antagonistic theory. And after the call was over and Severin returned from a commercial break to the blues music he allegedly adores, the scoffing could not be stopped, as he snidely suggested that he needed to be careful when he said that "blacks invented the blues," for such a statement of fact might be racist. Alas, I turned off the radio when Severin began his next segment with the proclamation that the argument facts can be racist is "the quintessence of the domestic threat to the United States Constitution that our Founding Fathers" were talking about.
Now quickly: Can a fact be racist? Well, what if I took five black men and five black women and put them in a cage (please, I am not advocating this), clinically observing them for 30 years, and then I published a factual article in a factual journal wherein I listed that the offspring of these black men and women tended toward incest, would that fact be racist? I think it would be. If I took a hundred thousand Jews and put them in a ghetto, let's say in Warsaw, and then I observed that the Jews seemed to be very shrewd at money-dealing on the black market and conniving in general, would that be a racist fact? I think it would be. What if I was a German scientist in 1944 and I observed that Jewish skin made for good soap, or effective lampshades? Would these not be "facts," and yet would they not also be "racist," making your very skin crawl?
I think they would.†
And what if I said that America's inner cities were rife with crime, with illegitimate children, absentee fathers, illiteracy and poverty everywhere, and that these things were mostly the plight of black families––would this, at least possibly, be the recitation of racist facts? Might not my litany of facts regarding the inner cities even begin to lead you to believe that blacks are lost, or incapable of saving themselves? Might my recitation of facts bias you against blacks; and might my recitation of facts also lead you to forget the broader causes of inner-city turmoil, perhaps even blinding you to the fact that inner-city blacks might in fact be living in a Warsaw ghetto, even a cage, surrounded by the barbed-wire of white institutional and political racism?
My broader point is that the caller to the Jay Severin radio program did something for me: he opened my mind to something I've never before seen or understood: statistics can not only lie, they may blind and mislead, and they may even fuel the very thing they were intended to suppress. Facts are not merely neutral, at least not always. When you hear the "facts" (from surveys) that the majority of Americans believed that Iraq had something to do with 9/11 and that most Americans who believed such an Iraq connection also watch Fox News, you are not entitled to believe that these are offered in cool detachment: these facts are meant to sway, intimidate, upbraid and even dehumanize. And if a person states that 40 million fetuses have been killed since Roe v. Wade became law, that person surely intends to sway you. In fact, people always use facts in order to sway you, perhaps often ignoring other, broader facts that might help you frame your thoughts more completely. "Facts" of this kind are not neutral, and you know it all too well: it is a fact that John Kerry "voted for the war before he voted against it"; it is a fact that George Bush "was only" in the Air National Guard in Texas. You get the idea.
And while the caller did something for me, he did nothing for Jay Severin, though I think had Mr. Severin actually been a proper, high-bred host (he is from a moneyed family); had Mr. Severin listened, he may have understood something very interesting and important: It is never too late to have one's mind opened; it is a good thing for even a host to learn something from his guests. But sadly the distance between hosting and hostility is not very great. Too bad Mr. Severin (and others of his medium) cannot keep the two words farther apart. But at least one is comforted knowing that Mr. Severin's dictionary is always nearby.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
†Let it be noted that I am even wary of fabricating facts for the sake of hypotheses or analogies. Even repeating news of an old crime might prompt a return to that sort of crime for some sick, imitative mind dwelling among us.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
The Economy Of Blood And Gore
If I ever had to seriously consider the meaning of the word economical, I might find myself thinking of two things: the mechanics of markets, or the wranglings of wordsmiths. The former is what most often comes to mind when I consider the social science of economics; the latter might come to mind when considering those writers who are economical with words. Or I might think in terms of frugality and efficiency in anything a person does, be it managing a home budget, a corporation, or the words in a letter to one's mother. I consider a person economical who manages something well, with simplicity and efficiency. An economical person might even be described as bare-boned or stripped-down; a person of the essential and necessary. It would not be too much to say that an economical person is plain, like the rooms at the Just-A-Bed Hotel or the lavatory in the economy-grade motor home.
I once worked with a man, a sweet guy but a notorious pothead, who one morning during break told me a wild tale.
"Heeeeeeyyyy, Billllllyyyyy! This morning, I woke up and looked at my alarm clock. 7:30. Oooops! I got in my Jeep. Zooooooooooom!"
And then he just walked away.
This sort of storytelling is truly economical, unintentionally descriptive by omitting description. I completely "get" the "Zoooooooooom!" It's Hemingway after his morning bong.
In a rather angry and confused moment while writing in my journal during a difficult period of courtship (the woman I thought I was to marry was off looking for meaning in Great Britain for a year), I wrote this "poem", the only entry for the day:
"There is a woman in England who has inspired this sentence."
Now that's an economical use of language, double entendres and all. (By the way, the woman in question is still in England; she found her purpose.)
But for contrast, please check out these three opening paragraphs from a Wall Street Journal op-ed drafted on economics by Al Gore and David Blood. While you read, please meditate on the possibility that Al Gore could be––right now––the President of the United States. I beg you, please read carefully.
Capitalism and sustainability are deeply and increasingly interrelated. After all, our economic activity is based on the use of natural and human resources. Not until we more broadly "price in" the external costs of investment decisions across all sectors will we have a sustainable economy and society.
The industrial revolution brought enormous prosperity, but it also introduced unsustainable business practices. Our current system for accounting was principally established in the 1930s by Lord Keynes and the creation of "national accounts" (the backbone of today's gross domestic product). While this system was precise in its ability to account for capital goods, it was imprecise in its ability to account for natural and human resources because it assumed them to be limitless. This, in part, explains why our current model of economic development is hard-wired to externalize as many costs as possible.
Externalities are costs created by industry but paid for by society. For example, pollution is an externality which is sometimes taxed by government in order to make the entity responsible "internalize" the full costs of production. Over the past century, companies have been rewarded financially for maximizing externalities in order to minimize costs.
Is that not a gas? I mean, is that not like being gassed to death by sheer verbosity?
I have a rule -- it is not a rule that goes very far -- and it is this: if someone of alleged expertise cannot explain his subject in plain language, he ain't an expert. He is, in short, a dolt, trapped in the complex language of his subject, unable to get out into the fresh air of analogy, metaphor or simile. He is stuck. I once heard an alleged expert during an alpine ski lesson tell his students to "work on the pressurization of your downhill ski," leaving his listeners (I was standing nearby) with the impression that they might have to jam one of their skis into an aerosol can. The ski instructor, a full-time engineer when not on the mountain, was unable to leave the language of engineering to explain something rather simple. Why? Because he did not really understand what he was teaching.
But even if he did thoroughly understand his subject, he did not know the most important rule about communicating: Know thine audience! And like the instructor who thinks everyone in his class is an engineer, Blood and Gore think all of us think and speak in the abstruse language of economic analysis. And yet I am too gracious, for I've read quite a bit of economic writing, and Blood and Gore strike me as being, at least conceptually and linguistically, in over their heads. They may have personal market success; they may be shrewd money-makers and advisors; but they are not communicators.
Here's another gem from their essay, "For People And Planet" (Wall Street Journal, 3/28/06):
...In addition, the rise in shareholder activism and the growing debate on fiduciary responsibility, governance legislation and reporting requirements (such as the Global Reporting Initiative and the EU Business Review) indicate the mainstream incorporation of sustainability concerns.
While we are seeing evidence of leading public companies adopting sustainable business practices in developed markets, there is still a long way to go to make sustainability fully integrated and therefore truly mainstream. A short-term focus still pervades both corporate and investment communities, which hinders long-term value creation.
I am sorry, but does this not border on the comedic? Is this not a parody of economic writing? Is this not Alan Greenspan --whose clearest statements were indecipherable -- playing himself on Saturday Night Live, or perhaps after too strong a dose of Prozac? Or is it a serious piece, written in a style that emulates the often abstruse Greenspan, intended to steal his cachet, a mere rip-off of his reputed erudition? For if words are like products boxed and ready for shipping, then what we are dealing with here is not a glut, it's market oversaturation, unprognosticated capital diminishments, and resource misallocation without due cognizance of market receptivity or consumer reciprocity.
Alas, it is serious, and that is the joke. For all this goes "Zooooooooom!" right over my head, and yet, unlike my pothead friend's words, Blood and Gore's words leave me laughing not at what is left out, but what is left in.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
I once worked with a man, a sweet guy but a notorious pothead, who one morning during break told me a wild tale.
"Heeeeeeyyyy, Billllllyyyyy! This morning, I woke up and looked at my alarm clock. 7:30. Oooops! I got in my Jeep. Zooooooooooom!"
And then he just walked away.
This sort of storytelling is truly economical, unintentionally descriptive by omitting description. I completely "get" the "Zoooooooooom!" It's Hemingway after his morning bong.
In a rather angry and confused moment while writing in my journal during a difficult period of courtship (the woman I thought I was to marry was off looking for meaning in Great Britain for a year), I wrote this "poem", the only entry for the day:
"There is a woman in England who has inspired this sentence."
Now that's an economical use of language, double entendres and all. (By the way, the woman in question is still in England; she found her purpose.)
But for contrast, please check out these three opening paragraphs from a Wall Street Journal op-ed drafted on economics by Al Gore and David Blood. While you read, please meditate on the possibility that Al Gore could be––right now––the President of the United States. I beg you, please read carefully.
Capitalism and sustainability are deeply and increasingly interrelated. After all, our economic activity is based on the use of natural and human resources. Not until we more broadly "price in" the external costs of investment decisions across all sectors will we have a sustainable economy and society.
The industrial revolution brought enormous prosperity, but it also introduced unsustainable business practices. Our current system for accounting was principally established in the 1930s by Lord Keynes and the creation of "national accounts" (the backbone of today's gross domestic product). While this system was precise in its ability to account for capital goods, it was imprecise in its ability to account for natural and human resources because it assumed them to be limitless. This, in part, explains why our current model of economic development is hard-wired to externalize as many costs as possible.
Externalities are costs created by industry but paid for by society. For example, pollution is an externality which is sometimes taxed by government in order to make the entity responsible "internalize" the full costs of production. Over the past century, companies have been rewarded financially for maximizing externalities in order to minimize costs.
Is that not a gas? I mean, is that not like being gassed to death by sheer verbosity?
I have a rule -- it is not a rule that goes very far -- and it is this: if someone of alleged expertise cannot explain his subject in plain language, he ain't an expert. He is, in short, a dolt, trapped in the complex language of his subject, unable to get out into the fresh air of analogy, metaphor or simile. He is stuck. I once heard an alleged expert during an alpine ski lesson tell his students to "work on the pressurization of your downhill ski," leaving his listeners (I was standing nearby) with the impression that they might have to jam one of their skis into an aerosol can. The ski instructor, a full-time engineer when not on the mountain, was unable to leave the language of engineering to explain something rather simple. Why? Because he did not really understand what he was teaching.
But even if he did thoroughly understand his subject, he did not know the most important rule about communicating: Know thine audience! And like the instructor who thinks everyone in his class is an engineer, Blood and Gore think all of us think and speak in the abstruse language of economic analysis. And yet I am too gracious, for I've read quite a bit of economic writing, and Blood and Gore strike me as being, at least conceptually and linguistically, in over their heads. They may have personal market success; they may be shrewd money-makers and advisors; but they are not communicators.
Here's another gem from their essay, "For People And Planet" (Wall Street Journal, 3/28/06):
...In addition, the rise in shareholder activism and the growing debate on fiduciary responsibility, governance legislation and reporting requirements (such as the Global Reporting Initiative and the EU Business Review) indicate the mainstream incorporation of sustainability concerns.
While we are seeing evidence of leading public companies adopting sustainable business practices in developed markets, there is still a long way to go to make sustainability fully integrated and therefore truly mainstream. A short-term focus still pervades both corporate and investment communities, which hinders long-term value creation.
I am sorry, but does this not border on the comedic? Is this not a parody of economic writing? Is this not Alan Greenspan --whose clearest statements were indecipherable -- playing himself on Saturday Night Live, or perhaps after too strong a dose of Prozac? Or is it a serious piece, written in a style that emulates the often abstruse Greenspan, intended to steal his cachet, a mere rip-off of his reputed erudition? For if words are like products boxed and ready for shipping, then what we are dealing with here is not a glut, it's market oversaturation, unprognosticated capital diminishments, and resource misallocation without due cognizance of market receptivity or consumer reciprocity.
Alas, it is serious, and that is the joke. For all this goes "Zooooooooom!" right over my head, and yet, unlike my pothead friend's words, Blood and Gore's words leave me laughing not at what is left out, but what is left in.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
The Devil's Hoof Is Cloven For A Reason
If Jesus is right when He says ––"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God"–-then I am not blessed, nor am I destined to be a son of God. That this smacks of fatalism is one way of describing my position; one might even call it nihilism, the belief in nothingness. But either description would be grievously errant. For I believe in peace, just as I believe in love, grace, and the far scarier facts of judgment and regeneration, particularly the regeneration of the cosmos in a Grand Redesign. I believe.
But I am not a peacemaker. At least, I am not a Christian Peacemaker Teams member, nor would I ever want to be.
You'll recall that for the last four months, four members of the Christian Peacemaker Teams were held hostage in Iraq. Last week, three members were rescued in a tactical military operation, the fourth member, Tom Fox, having been killed by his captors days earlier.
Allow me to contemplate the comments of one of Mr. Fox's rescued colleagues, Norman Kember, who said in a grateful statement after his rescue:
"I do not believe that a lasting peace is achieved by armed force ..."
Mr. Kember's statement is of course familiar. His statement is not what one would call unique or fresh; it is not a new insight or revelation received from on high. But I want to ask, not whether Mr. Kember's statement is true, but whether it is meaningful. Is it?
Mr. Kember is a member of a thoroughly political organization which calls for Christians to commit to non-violence "by getting in the way." The Christian Peacemaker Teams website is even decorated with the provocative banner:
In other words, if Mr. Kember, as a soldier of peace, has the attitude of a soldier at war, Mr. Kember's pacifism is quite sincere and undeniably regimented.
"What would happen if Christians devoted the same discipline and self-sacrifice to nonviolent peacemaking that armies devote to war?"It is surely a catchy banner; the question clearly engages the mind. But what can we draw from the question posed by Mr. Kember's group? One thing we can draw is that these pacifists believe armies built for war ought to be emulated: that we should consider devoting ourselves to that attitude of self-sacrifice and discipline expected of soldiers.
In other words, if Mr. Kember, as a soldier of peace, has the attitude of a soldier at war, Mr. Kember's pacifism is quite sincere and undeniably regimented.
Is it at all interesting to note that CPT's way of peace is to emulate those who wage war? For into the melee comes, with the same strength of conviction as any embattled, flag-draped warrior, the peacemaking squads with their message that no lasting peace can ever come of violence. Of course, their very message is born of violence, for they would not be so motivated––imitating the pugilistic armies of the world––to spread peace if there were no armies in violent conflict (but that is a silly, useless observation on my part). And, of course, their very message of peace only makes sense in a violent world (but I am also a fool to note that). If war is not peace, then peacemaking only makes sense as an antidote to what is not peace, that is, war.
Surely it is the hope of the members of CPT that they may so thoroughly interrupt violent conflict that they will finally render all the world's aggressors impotent, forcing by sheer charity all the violent to admit that peace is the only true "final solution"; that war is bereft of power to bring real change; that armed conflict is wearisome and loathsome; that non-violence is bliss. Is it stupid of me to point out that non-violent peacemakers want to teach us all a better way, and that their lessons make no sense if we are not doing things the wrong way? Isn't their goal to make a better world; to prove to the bellicose that they are wrong, that their bellicosity is proven fruitless by the fruitfulness of peace? If so, does it not mean that peacemakers are the result of conflict? In other words, is not peace the fruit of fighting, of even violent fighting? If not, how does the lesson of peace make sense, for surely one does not teach what is right to anything but what is wrong; surely one does not teach how to properly wash dishes to one who is improperly trimming the hedgerow: You teach proper dishwashing to those who improperly wash dishes. But is not the proper understanding of dishwashing only meaningful to those who have done violence to dishes by washing them with mud, smashing them with abrasive rocks, scouring them with gunfire? Is not a lasting piece of Wedgwood china born of countless pieces of broken ceramic?
In other words, has not the long history of fighting, of bloodshed, brought us to the point of admitting that a lasting peace can only finally come by being peaceful? If so, isn't it the case that this is the lesson not of peace, but the sword? Indeed, it is the case.
What of Mr. Kember himself? Rescued as he was by military action, what if he goes on to preach a lasting peace, and he succeeds in ushering a new age of tranquility? What if his life––saved as it was by a bullet in a well-oiled chamber––what if his life becomes the perfect and final statement of peace to which all people fall in repentance and contrition, tossing their sidearms and nuclear weapons into the abyss and embracing their enemies with love and grace? Would it not be the case that a lasting peace was indeed achieved by violence, the violence which was his rescue? For surely his saviors––the rescue team members and all the vast millions of soldiers who are left in their wake (the very wake of history)––brought to him, with all their tactical skill and firepower, his salvation, as they kicked in the very door of a cell that held peace hostage. It matters not whether the actual rescue event was free of violence, for the rescue team itself is by definition a force of violence, a force against kidnapping, abuse and tyranny. That rescue team has been trained and shaped by the centuries of violence that preceded it; just as it is shaped by the violent milieu in which it moves every day. Thus the only conclusion for Mr. Kember, if he indeed represents a lasting peace, is that it must be the case that violence contradicts him: violence can produce a lasting peace, or else there would be no Mr. Kember to show us otherwise.
And Jesus also said: I have not come to bring peace but a sword. A sword that has cloven a wide cleft between brother and sister, mother and father; and even between peacemaker and peacemaker. Jesus is not a peacemaker, at least not how we understand peace. His peace, or so St. Paul says, is a peace "that passes all understanding." In fact if Jesus is anything, He is a maker of pieces, shattering the world and its idols of self-righteousness.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Crash On Course
I saw the crash, and it turned my stomach. For it was not merely the violence of it, it was the inexplicability of it that left me feeling queasy, sad, and even angry.
I am talking about the horrific crash yesterday morning between Indy Car Racing League (IRL) drivers Paul Dana and Ed Carpenter in which Paul Dana was killed and Carpenter seriously injured during the last practice session prior to the Toyota Indy 300.
Dana, 30 years old, was the IRL's newest rookie driver, and he was married. His wife, Tonya, was notified of his death while sitting in church. And besides being a husband and a driver, Dana was something else: he was a wordsmith, a writer by training, who had worked as a racing journalist before making the amazing move to driving cars that can roll 225 mph.
[For a little perspective on these types of cars, I recall Jackie Stewart, former world-champion Formula One racer and ABC Sports announcer, describe, over 25 years ago, that Formula One cars (closely related to Indy cars) could go from zero to 100 mph and back down to zero––in less than six seconds! Also, these cars are each so carefully crafted, that aerodynamic wings afixed to the vehicles create enough down-force that the cars could, at speed, travel upside-down on a ceiling (and a recent Popular Science article discussed the possibility of having some parts of an auto racetrack inverted). Needless to say, the sort of forces drivers experience in these cars is unimagineable.]
There is no doubt that Mr. Dana's death appears to most viewers to have been avoidable. Every safety precaution not only was utilized, but every warning system was deployed, including a verbal warning from a spotter radioed directly to Mr. Dana, and yet, for some reason, Dana lost a full sense of his surroundings, failing to notice the car --nearly at rest-- sitting in his line of travel: Carpenter's car, which had crashed nearly 10 seconds earlier. At at least 175 mph, Mr. Dana's life came to sudden end. At such speeds, 10 seconds is not a lot of time, nor is a thousand feet much distance. But most of us familiar with racing can tell that everyone around Mr. Carpenter's car was reacting to him, and that Mr. Dana did not.
We won't ever know what caused this crash, though one ESPN writer, and former journalistic rival of Mr. Dana's, has penned this interesting, and sad, essay about Dana's life and what may have contributed to his death. (By the way, Mr. Dana drove for team owners David Letterman and Bobby Rahal.)
But I want to forego commentary here of this tragedy in racing and speak instead of something else, namely, the propensity of people to see things through politics-colored lenses. For while searching the web for commentary on the crash, I found a discussion site listed right near the top of Google's search results. And there I found this comment submitted by a writer simply named Pam from Florida:
The Indy racing teams don't really care about this death, they are right now trying to hire a driver to take Paul's place. It is kind of like the war. Sending dangerous machines around in circles wasting too much fuel, spending too many resources and incurring human death all for what?
His family will miss him and I am sorry! But Indy racing only cares because this horrific event might increase the ratings.
Ask David Letterman.
Sorry, but the lose [sic] of life is just "one of those things," it is all about the big money. [Emphasis added]
Amazing comments, though not incredible ones. It really is no surprise to find someone connecting car racing to the war in Iraq -- is it? -- and yet one surely wishes it was surprising. Of course, I sort of replied to Pam, after one commenter told her she should be ashamed for her comments (from my original comments I've changed the word "things" to "deeds" for use here):
It is a sad fact that accidents happen every second of our lives. It is clear that something went terribly wrong in the cockpit of Mr. Dana's car: something prevented him from being aware of his surroundings. A friend of mine suggested that every race car should be fitted with a crash-sensing remote trigger which instantly warns all other drivers of a crash on course (a switch built like an air-bag sensor), or even one that triggers speed suppression switches (like a kill switch) in all cars on course. ...
I ... don't think Pam should be ashamed. But I think she might want to be a bit more circumspect. We could all reduce everything we do to the simplest components and our actions would look wasteful, stupid, and absurd. Most people don't know that the most toxic industry on the planet is the computer industry, consuming vast amounts of energy and dropping dangerous, toxic metals on the environment (I am not exaggerating one whit). And yet Pam is using a computer. Moreover, everything we do can no doubt be reduced to politics or economics. But that Pam should introduce the war here not only cheapens the war, it cheapens life. Plus, people die not only in sports (like Arena Football), they die doing good deeds. Should we stop doing good deeds? Or should we celebrate the power and privilege of life by continuing to pursue excellence, justice, beauty, truth --or whatever-- in the stark face of death, tragedy and sorrow? Of course David Letterman is looking for a replacement: there is nothing intrinsically shameful about that fact at all; nor is it suggestive of anything other than that death does not hold life hostage.
Peace, and my sincerest condolences to the Dana family. Pam might think Mr. Dana's death was in vain. For that, perhaps, Pam should feel ashamed: Who among us knows the value of a life, or a death?
I once wrote that "sex is friction, Christmas is traffic." In some sense, even perhaps the most scientific sense, both statements are true. There are no words on this computer screen, only tiny bits of flashing photons––that too is true. But to reduce things to these levels in an effort to suggest that this is ALL such things are or will ever be is a reductionism that kills the mind, and stifles the will to breathe. Pam's reduction of car racing is similarly barbarous, I am afraid, for it confines perception to a very narrow set of criteria: political and economic ones, and even those are truncated and severe. That Pam does not understand car racing is fine; that many people think car racing is for the dumb is fine as well. That many people don't realize each race car and its team is a vast science project is also fine; and it's fine that most people don't realize that the science lessons of the racetrack trickle down into the technology of our own cars. But to believe that the racing industry is like the War on Terror, or that it is nothing but the abject abuse of the environment, is probably a fine belief, but it surely is not a refined one.
My condolences to the Dana family.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
I am talking about the horrific crash yesterday morning between Indy Car Racing League (IRL) drivers Paul Dana and Ed Carpenter in which Paul Dana was killed and Carpenter seriously injured during the last practice session prior to the Toyota Indy 300.
Dana, 30 years old, was the IRL's newest rookie driver, and he was married. His wife, Tonya, was notified of his death while sitting in church. And besides being a husband and a driver, Dana was something else: he was a wordsmith, a writer by training, who had worked as a racing journalist before making the amazing move to driving cars that can roll 225 mph.
[For a little perspective on these types of cars, I recall Jackie Stewart, former world-champion Formula One racer and ABC Sports announcer, describe, over 25 years ago, that Formula One cars (closely related to Indy cars) could go from zero to 100 mph and back down to zero––in less than six seconds! Also, these cars are each so carefully crafted, that aerodynamic wings afixed to the vehicles create enough down-force that the cars could, at speed, travel upside-down on a ceiling (and a recent Popular Science article discussed the possibility of having some parts of an auto racetrack inverted). Needless to say, the sort of forces drivers experience in these cars is unimagineable.]
There is no doubt that Mr. Dana's death appears to most viewers to have been avoidable. Every safety precaution not only was utilized, but every warning system was deployed, including a verbal warning from a spotter radioed directly to Mr. Dana, and yet, for some reason, Dana lost a full sense of his surroundings, failing to notice the car --nearly at rest-- sitting in his line of travel: Carpenter's car, which had crashed nearly 10 seconds earlier. At at least 175 mph, Mr. Dana's life came to sudden end. At such speeds, 10 seconds is not a lot of time, nor is a thousand feet much distance. But most of us familiar with racing can tell that everyone around Mr. Carpenter's car was reacting to him, and that Mr. Dana did not.
We won't ever know what caused this crash, though one ESPN writer, and former journalistic rival of Mr. Dana's, has penned this interesting, and sad, essay about Dana's life and what may have contributed to his death. (By the way, Mr. Dana drove for team owners David Letterman and Bobby Rahal.)
But I want to forego commentary here of this tragedy in racing and speak instead of something else, namely, the propensity of people to see things through politics-colored lenses. For while searching the web for commentary on the crash, I found a discussion site listed right near the top of Google's search results. And there I found this comment submitted by a writer simply named Pam from Florida:
The Indy racing teams don't really care about this death, they are right now trying to hire a driver to take Paul's place. It is kind of like the war. Sending dangerous machines around in circles wasting too much fuel, spending too many resources and incurring human death all for what?
His family will miss him and I am sorry! But Indy racing only cares because this horrific event might increase the ratings.
Ask David Letterman.
Sorry, but the lose [sic] of life is just "one of those things," it is all about the big money. [Emphasis added]
Amazing comments, though not incredible ones. It really is no surprise to find someone connecting car racing to the war in Iraq -- is it? -- and yet one surely wishes it was surprising. Of course, I sort of replied to Pam, after one commenter told her she should be ashamed for her comments (from my original comments I've changed the word "things" to "deeds" for use here):
It is a sad fact that accidents happen every second of our lives. It is clear that something went terribly wrong in the cockpit of Mr. Dana's car: something prevented him from being aware of his surroundings. A friend of mine suggested that every race car should be fitted with a crash-sensing remote trigger which instantly warns all other drivers of a crash on course (a switch built like an air-bag sensor), or even one that triggers speed suppression switches (like a kill switch) in all cars on course. ...
I ... don't think Pam should be ashamed. But I think she might want to be a bit more circumspect. We could all reduce everything we do to the simplest components and our actions would look wasteful, stupid, and absurd. Most people don't know that the most toxic industry on the planet is the computer industry, consuming vast amounts of energy and dropping dangerous, toxic metals on the environment (I am not exaggerating one whit). And yet Pam is using a computer. Moreover, everything we do can no doubt be reduced to politics or economics. But that Pam should introduce the war here not only cheapens the war, it cheapens life. Plus, people die not only in sports (like Arena Football), they die doing good deeds. Should we stop doing good deeds? Or should we celebrate the power and privilege of life by continuing to pursue excellence, justice, beauty, truth --or whatever-- in the stark face of death, tragedy and sorrow? Of course David Letterman is looking for a replacement: there is nothing intrinsically shameful about that fact at all; nor is it suggestive of anything other than that death does not hold life hostage.
Peace, and my sincerest condolences to the Dana family. Pam might think Mr. Dana's death was in vain. For that, perhaps, Pam should feel ashamed: Who among us knows the value of a life, or a death?
I once wrote that "sex is friction, Christmas is traffic." In some sense, even perhaps the most scientific sense, both statements are true. There are no words on this computer screen, only tiny bits of flashing photons––that too is true. But to reduce things to these levels in an effort to suggest that this is ALL such things are or will ever be is a reductionism that kills the mind, and stifles the will to breathe. Pam's reduction of car racing is similarly barbarous, I am afraid, for it confines perception to a very narrow set of criteria: political and economic ones, and even those are truncated and severe. That Pam does not understand car racing is fine; that many people think car racing is for the dumb is fine as well. That many people don't realize each race car and its team is a vast science project is also fine; and it's fine that most people don't realize that the science lessons of the racetrack trickle down into the technology of our own cars. But to believe that the racing industry is like the War on Terror, or that it is nothing but the abject abuse of the environment, is probably a fine belief, but it surely is not a refined one.
My condolences to the Dana family.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Literary Flourishes: What I Know
Yesterday, as you could tell, I was feeling a bit, well, poetic. I defer, with all humility, to those readers out there who are indeed either real poets or real connoisseurs of poetry, for such might find my poems tedious, trite, and rife with cliché. Others of you may disdain poetry, finding it too vague or esoteric, too pretentious or aloof. It is without shame that I confess that I love poetry for its freedom––the freedom to write with precision or imprecision (for effect), and the liberty to make obscure what is obvious (and too often forgotten), or to make clear what has become obscured by either indifference or forgetfulness.
For those of you who read my Lenten post, A Eucharistic Chore, Trash Bags In Hand, you will undoubtedly recall that it read a bit like a prose-poem: it was meant––in a sense––to bombard the reader with powerful images. Several of you understood its message immediately; others of you found messages that are entirely your own (which is fine). But I thought I'd share that an editor to whom I submitted that piece for consideration in a Christian journal felt that the "take away" value, ie. the lesson the reader should take from the piece, was too subtle, too hidden or ambiguous. This critique is wildly interesting to me, for I would think that the "take away" from A Eucharistic Chore is pretty obvious. But what I think that the editor was saying (she confirmed this in a later letter to me), was that she likes to present to readers ideas and lessons that are direct, immediate, and, most importantly, explained. In other words, the writer should not leave too much for the reader to discern and divide; the writer should not only do the writing, but also the thinking––even the concluding––for the reader. Readers, in her mind, need to be gratified immediately.
For me, this is exactly what I DON'T want when I read something literary, particularly a poem. A poem, to me, is really a riddle: it is like a novel in fragments, with the story mostly found between the lines. A poem should require some work on the reader's part; it should engage and steer and provoke the reader, giving the reader just enough clues for what should be an epiphany of some sort, a "Voila!" moment that bursts inside the mind of the reader, a revelation caused not because of heavy-handed pedagogy by the poet, but by the clues the poet offers and the discerning attentiveness of the reader. Poetry in a sense is prose's shorthand; or perhaps it is a bit like what a jazz improv is to a symphony: it is a fragment of a whole (and whole itself) that points to something between and beyond the notes. Or perhaps it is like a minimalist painting, or even pointillistic or impressionistic, where the strokes and dabs and points of paint hint at something that is not painted at all.
I would like to share one of my poems that was published last year in the Northern New England Review. I wrote it one night at Colgate University while attending a week-long poetry workshop there in 2002. I present it in its original form (only tiny adjustments) as written that night (and into the wee hours of the morning) after I was pressed on the first day of the conference to write about something I knew. Well, this poem is about something I indeed know. And I had the privilege of reading this poem to the whole conference, with Pulitzer-Prize winning poet W.D. Snodgrass among the listeners. Let me know what you think.
Spectacles en route
by Bill Gnade
There’s a flash from her hand as she reaches for him
and he puts his arms around her while another man
takes her from behind saying, ‘Can you manage? Try.’
She wears a mask through all of this, this breathtaking struggle
going on inside her, as both men hurt her
trying to give themselves better access
Some are resigned to watching, others waiting
to take their turn, to carry at least one woman to the waiting beds
in this makeshift red-light district that suddenly appeared
from nowhere like the wind with these sirens needing so much
in this tangle of motion with limbs writhing, seeking relief,
muffled mouths crying out to be lifted
carried away with straps and surgical tubes
each having taken the scenic route to this sudden tryst
to these impersonal, intimate encounters
as one woman’s chest is suddenly pressed hard by hopeful hands
her mouth pressed to his until better equipped men
arrive in time
lip to lip
by accident
My nose tingles with the sweet smells
wafting in the burning pungent heat of both women’s
dripping radiators
ferrous moans creaking in smoldering rhythm from iron manifolds
while the sun burns its face upon the skin
amid fevered groaning and whispered concerns
whispered behind hands held close to reddened cheeks
the sun a floodlight on bloodlight and broken teeth
men and women gripping wrists gauging pressures
and the fading throbs of fading heartbeats
other men charge their long hoses and pump
primers on generators, opening jaws
stretching hydraulic pistons, leaking fluid
on fragments of broken glass
beneath so many urgent feet
as another woman comes
wearing latex gloves
giving gentle instructions,
‘Place your hand here,
just inside her thigh.’
A dog peers from a shattered window
and is pulled gently into the arms of a man
who can do nothing else
but take the dog for a walk
toward some distant tree
no name on the dog’s collar as collars are
placed on two swollen women in heat
the feverish heat of the burning, sudden sun
with their tops pulled back, giving room
for more hands to massage hearts with tactical
shock
I pick up bifocals lying in the road at my feet:
‘How did no one see these?’
I lift them, gently blowing away dust,
and I raise them to my eyes
to see what she might have seen:
far: a husband who loves her
who in a pale rush
will rush toward hard news
after calling the children;
near: a sudden crush of metal and glass
and two women
surrounded by strangers
who met in the middle of the road
moments ago
one now like a deflated airbag
the other gripping to life,
her diamond ring shining in the sun
flashing blue, yellow, red.
______________
Peace to you.
©Bill Gnade 2002/2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
For those of you who read my Lenten post, A Eucharistic Chore, Trash Bags In Hand, you will undoubtedly recall that it read a bit like a prose-poem: it was meant––in a sense––to bombard the reader with powerful images. Several of you understood its message immediately; others of you found messages that are entirely your own (which is fine). But I thought I'd share that an editor to whom I submitted that piece for consideration in a Christian journal felt that the "take away" value, ie. the lesson the reader should take from the piece, was too subtle, too hidden or ambiguous. This critique is wildly interesting to me, for I would think that the "take away" from A Eucharistic Chore is pretty obvious. But what I think that the editor was saying (she confirmed this in a later letter to me), was that she likes to present to readers ideas and lessons that are direct, immediate, and, most importantly, explained. In other words, the writer should not leave too much for the reader to discern and divide; the writer should not only do the writing, but also the thinking––even the concluding––for the reader. Readers, in her mind, need to be gratified immediately.
For me, this is exactly what I DON'T want when I read something literary, particularly a poem. A poem, to me, is really a riddle: it is like a novel in fragments, with the story mostly found between the lines. A poem should require some work on the reader's part; it should engage and steer and provoke the reader, giving the reader just enough clues for what should be an epiphany of some sort, a "Voila!" moment that bursts inside the mind of the reader, a revelation caused not because of heavy-handed pedagogy by the poet, but by the clues the poet offers and the discerning attentiveness of the reader. Poetry in a sense is prose's shorthand; or perhaps it is a bit like what a jazz improv is to a symphony: it is a fragment of a whole (and whole itself) that points to something between and beyond the notes. Or perhaps it is like a minimalist painting, or even pointillistic or impressionistic, where the strokes and dabs and points of paint hint at something that is not painted at all.
I would like to share one of my poems that was published last year in the Northern New England Review. I wrote it one night at Colgate University while attending a week-long poetry workshop there in 2002. I present it in its original form (only tiny adjustments) as written that night (and into the wee hours of the morning) after I was pressed on the first day of the conference to write about something I knew. Well, this poem is about something I indeed know. And I had the privilege of reading this poem to the whole conference, with Pulitzer-Prize winning poet W.D. Snodgrass among the listeners. Let me know what you think.
Spectacles en route
by Bill Gnade
There’s a flash from her hand as she reaches for him
and he puts his arms around her while another man
takes her from behind saying, ‘Can you manage? Try.’
She wears a mask through all of this, this breathtaking struggle
going on inside her, as both men hurt her
trying to give themselves better access
Some are resigned to watching, others waiting
to take their turn, to carry at least one woman to the waiting beds
in this makeshift red-light district that suddenly appeared
from nowhere like the wind with these sirens needing so much
in this tangle of motion with limbs writhing, seeking relief,
muffled mouths crying out to be lifted
carried away with straps and surgical tubes
each having taken the scenic route to this sudden tryst
to these impersonal, intimate encounters
as one woman’s chest is suddenly pressed hard by hopeful hands
her mouth pressed to his until better equipped men
arrive in time
lip to lip
by accident
My nose tingles with the sweet smells
wafting in the burning pungent heat of both women’s
dripping radiators
ferrous moans creaking in smoldering rhythm from iron manifolds
while the sun burns its face upon the skin
amid fevered groaning and whispered concerns
whispered behind hands held close to reddened cheeks
the sun a floodlight on bloodlight and broken teeth
men and women gripping wrists gauging pressures
and the fading throbs of fading heartbeats
other men charge their long hoses and pump
primers on generators, opening jaws
stretching hydraulic pistons, leaking fluid
on fragments of broken glass
beneath so many urgent feet
as another woman comes
wearing latex gloves
giving gentle instructions,
‘Place your hand here,
just inside her thigh.’
A dog peers from a shattered window
and is pulled gently into the arms of a man
who can do nothing else
but take the dog for a walk
toward some distant tree
no name on the dog’s collar as collars are
placed on two swollen women in heat
the feverish heat of the burning, sudden sun
with their tops pulled back, giving room
for more hands to massage hearts with tactical
shock
I pick up bifocals lying in the road at my feet:
‘How did no one see these?’
I lift them, gently blowing away dust,
and I raise them to my eyes
to see what she might have seen:
far: a husband who loves her
who in a pale rush
will rush toward hard news
after calling the children;
near: a sudden crush of metal and glass
and two women
surrounded by strangers
who met in the middle of the road
moments ago
one now like a deflated airbag
the other gripping to life,
her diamond ring shining in the sun
flashing blue, yellow, red.
______________
Peace to you.
©Bill Gnade 2002/2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
Friday, March 24, 2006
I See Too Little Too Much
I see a shade on the window of the world,
and it is drawn
I see a plow in the fertile skin of the earth
and it is still
I see a Bible on the pulpit of peace and it is not
earmarked anywhere, for anything
I see a novel in the corner, unpublished, unread
an undreamt dream
which should be its title
I see a nurse on the floor in the hall
and everyone is buzzing
I see a dumpster full of truths, and a
crow picking one over
I see a group of monkeys hammering away at
pieces of granite and marble, and I see that they have written
on headstones everything ever written in The New York Times
another cosmological argument for the tyranny of nothing
I see a child walking down the sidewalk and
there are no crossing guards or warning lights, no signs
saying Don’t Walk or Go Back or Don’t Believe a
Word They Tell You
And I hear the trees screaming in the woodstove
and the cow moaning behind my freezer door
I see eviction notices posted over the doors
of bluebird houses, and lawnmower
tracks through the lilies of the field where there
is toil and vortex spin
And I see a yacht sinking on a golf green
or the fate of nations falling into a cup
with one wicked putt
I hear a poet in a café who has given up
words, and words that have given up meaning
and histories that are just Kuhnian paradigms
and there is nothing like a Platonic form
And suddenly there is a dawn I see with my eyes closed and a dusk I can
hear in a shock wave
And I see Jesus moving in a tomb and a Buddha that is skinny
and a Mohammed that never touched a sword
and that if the tomb is not empty there is nothing
that will stop the Adam-splitting begun in the
chambers of the bomb once it falls
splitting the very stars from my vision
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
and it is drawn
I see a plow in the fertile skin of the earth
and it is still
I see a Bible on the pulpit of peace and it is not
earmarked anywhere, for anything
I see a novel in the corner, unpublished, unread
an undreamt dream
which should be its title
I see a nurse on the floor in the hall
and everyone is buzzing
I see a dumpster full of truths, and a
crow picking one over
I see a group of monkeys hammering away at
pieces of granite and marble, and I see that they have written
on headstones everything ever written in The New York Times
another cosmological argument for the tyranny of nothing
I see a child walking down the sidewalk and
there are no crossing guards or warning lights, no signs
saying Don’t Walk or Go Back or Don’t Believe a
Word They Tell You
And I hear the trees screaming in the woodstove
and the cow moaning behind my freezer door
I see eviction notices posted over the doors
of bluebird houses, and lawnmower
tracks through the lilies of the field where there
is toil and vortex spin
And I see a yacht sinking on a golf green
or the fate of nations falling into a cup
with one wicked putt
I hear a poet in a café who has given up
words, and words that have given up meaning
and histories that are just Kuhnian paradigms
and there is nothing like a Platonic form
And suddenly there is a dawn I see with my eyes closed and a dusk I can
hear in a shock wave
And I see Jesus moving in a tomb and a Buddha that is skinny
and a Mohammed that never touched a sword
and that if the tomb is not empty there is nothing
that will stop the Adam-splitting begun in the
chambers of the bomb once it falls
splitting the very stars from my vision
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Listing To One Side, Then The Other
Sometimes I wonder about the end of the world. I am not one of those apocalyptic types: I don't spend any time reading Nostradamus, and I rarely read, with a prophet's zeal, the eschatological passages of the Bible. But I know that things can't go on forever: my science teachers at least taught me that much.
Last night I really felt like I was sitting in a prison camp the size of the world, and I was merely witnessing which group of inmates was going to seize control of the cafeteria. For I watched Countdown with Keith Olbermann, an MSNBC primetime news show. And there I watched Mr. Olbermann demonstrate a frightening trend: the news is now the news.
It seems that Olbermann has a fetish for––oops, I am sorry––is having a feud with Fox News' Bill O'Reilly. But I will toss the details so I can focus on the narcissism of the media: News reporters and commentators are now reporting and commenting on other reporters and commentators in a spiralling decent into the hell of ratings wars. There is something not only incestuous about this; there is something utterly deadening: we are being fed junk food for the mind that is not one bit food.
It makes me want to slit my wrists with the shards of my shattered TV.
Last night I really felt like I was sitting in a prison camp the size of the world, and I was merely witnessing which group of inmates was going to seize control of the cafeteria. For I watched Countdown with Keith Olbermann, an MSNBC primetime news show. And there I watched Mr. Olbermann demonstrate a frightening trend: the news is now the news.
It seems that Olbermann has a fetish for––oops, I am sorry––is having a feud with Fox News' Bill O'Reilly. But I will toss the details so I can focus on the narcissism of the media: News reporters and commentators are now reporting and commenting on other reporters and commentators in a spiralling decent into the hell of ratings wars. There is something not only incestuous about this; there is something utterly deadening: we are being fed junk food for the mind that is not one bit food.
It makes me want to slit my wrists with the shards of my shattered TV.
***
Bill O'Reilly is not one of my favorites, though there are times I believe he is incredibly deft at debate (and there are others when I think he is a dolt). Last night, near the end of his show (The O'Reilly Factor), as he was wrapping up a discussion about the Catholic Church and public funding in San Francisco, he said the following after one guest mentioned that the majority of Roman Catholics in California (all two of them––dumb joke, I know), supported "gay adoption" (which is not the adoption of gay men, I believe, but orphaned children adopted by gay couples––another silly joke). O'Reilly's response, being the good Roman Catholic that he is (he reminds listeners this more than occasionally), was this (I paraphrase): I have no problem with that; I even agree with that. I think gay couples should be allowed to adopt children ...
Of course, my problem with O'Reilly has nothing to do with his opinion per se; my problem is that he describes himself as a good Catholic. That the Catholic Church is the single biggest target in the battle to secularize the world is obvious; that the Catholic Church in San Francisco (the city of Saint Francis, who was one great Catholic) is being pressured from outside forces to conform to the zeitgeist is equally obvious. But what is not so obvious is that the Catholic Church is being undermined from within its sheepfold by folks like Bill O'Reilly: people who want to democratize the Church, putting all authority in the hands of the people, even the individual.
Needless to say, if the Church continues to accept such tepid zeal for its teachings, it is doomed. As goes the Church, so goes the world.
Of course, my problem with O'Reilly has nothing to do with his opinion per se; my problem is that he describes himself as a good Catholic. That the Catholic Church is the single biggest target in the battle to secularize the world is obvious; that the Catholic Church in San Francisco (the city of Saint Francis, who was one great Catholic) is being pressured from outside forces to conform to the zeitgeist is equally obvious. But what is not so obvious is that the Catholic Church is being undermined from within its sheepfold by folks like Bill O'Reilly: people who want to democratize the Church, putting all authority in the hands of the people, even the individual.
Needless to say, if the Church continues to accept such tepid zeal for its teachings, it is doomed. As goes the Church, so goes the world.
***
In a Pew Charitable Trusts research poll reported yesterday, it was shown that acceptance of gay adoption and gay marriage has risen substantially over the past few years (for my purpose here, I will only speak superficially about the report). One might argue that the propaganda war has been successful, though I will make this challenging statement: the propaganda war is being won by the pro-gay lobby despite the fact that it has not won a single argument that establishes homosexuality as normal or morally acceptable (this statement is perhaps my strongest statement on homosexuality since I began this blog). But I will not address that here. My interest is in this––that acceptance of homosexual adoption has not budged one percentage point among African-Americans: 58% remain convinced that gay adoption is undesirable.
This portion of the poll must give activists pause. For here we have the nation's most noted minority opposing another minority's cause: American blacks have not changed their opinions since 1999: gays should not adopt children. I think the civil and political rights issues this news item suggests are wildly interesting.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
This portion of the poll must give activists pause. For here we have the nation's most noted minority opposing another minority's cause: American blacks have not changed their opinions since 1999: gays should not adopt children. I think the civil and political rights issues this news item suggests are wildly interesting.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Quitting At All Cost
1,095 sunrises. 1,095 sunsets. 1,095 morning newspapers. 3 birthdays. 3 spring cleanings. 3 first snowfalls. 3 Christmas mornings.
In other words, 3 years. That is how long America's military has been engaged in Iraq. If we were talking about marriage, we would be still be talking about newlyweds. If we were talking about children, we might still be using the word, "baby." If we were talking about a tree, we might refer to a sapling. In other words, 3 years is not really a long time, particularly when we are talking about important things that require important commitments. I mean, few of us would call an alcoholic's three-year dry period a success if that former drunk has been addicted for 35 years. Such things take time. But we would not call it a failure either, nor would we call it foolish. Nor would we dismiss the drunk if he were to slip into a bottle every other week, or even every other day.
I am not one to dismiss bad news. There is bad news in Iraq every day; just like there is bad news in America every day. Boston has hundreds of unsolved murders less than two years old, a blight which proves––does it not?––that Boston is a quagmire. Tens of thousands of Americans are murdered annually, and yet we do not hear about America's abject failure as a democracy, that it is a decrepit civic project foisted on us by lying neo-cons.
Let us admit that there have been less than ideal things that have occurred in Iraq over the last three years. Let us bend our knees and beg for mercy. Mistakes have been made. Mistakes will be made. But let us also note that critics of the war do so from a supposed enlightened position, arguing that Iraq, or war in general, is only commendable when everything about military action is handled perfectly. In fact, let us go one step further, and suggest, hyperbolically perhaps, that critics of the war are a bit like vacationers who can only relax if everything about a trip goes "perfectly." For the rest of us, imperfections are proof that we are alive, giving us broken things to fix and broken things from which to learn. A perfect war, or a perfect reason for war, is a dream for leftist war critics, who have a penchant for longing for a perfect world. The rest of us, dystopic to the core, are grateful that utopia is not achievable, for the world would be a bland place if utopia was achieved. For utopia leaves us with the blandness of a cruise ship vacation or a Florida retirement resort.
But this is not about justifying war because it makes us stronger or teaches us lessons. This is to justify the lessons as an unavoidable consequence of being engaged in the pursuit of peace and justice in a violent, Darwinian world. For if Darwin is right, then utopia is not only not achievable, violence is not avoidable nor is war ever going to be perfect.
I wonder, should I give up on my marriage after three anniversaries merely because it is difficult and costly? Should I give up on my "baby" because she is not conforming to my expectations of a 3-year-old? Should I quit redesigning my house because it is taking too long, or that it is too hard on my hands? Should I quit my job after three annual reviews, because it is not a perfect job? Should I cut down my newly-planted elm because it is growing too slowly, bending a bit mid-trunk? And should I retreat from Boston because it is a violent, backward and forsaken place?
If a person wants Iraq to really become a breeding ground for terrorists, let that person withdraw American and coalition forces immediately. If a person wants to turn the Middle East against America, let that person pull America out of Iraq before Iraq has gotten back on its feet. If a person wants failure, then by all means, let them acquit themselves of his or her commitment when the going gets rough, right at the outset of their senior year. Who cares about that diploma, anyway?
Iraq, we pray for you.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
In other words, 3 years. That is how long America's military has been engaged in Iraq. If we were talking about marriage, we would be still be talking about newlyweds. If we were talking about children, we might still be using the word, "baby." If we were talking about a tree, we might refer to a sapling. In other words, 3 years is not really a long time, particularly when we are talking about important things that require important commitments. I mean, few of us would call an alcoholic's three-year dry period a success if that former drunk has been addicted for 35 years. Such things take time. But we would not call it a failure either, nor would we call it foolish. Nor would we dismiss the drunk if he were to slip into a bottle every other week, or even every other day.
I am not one to dismiss bad news. There is bad news in Iraq every day; just like there is bad news in America every day. Boston has hundreds of unsolved murders less than two years old, a blight which proves––does it not?––that Boston is a quagmire. Tens of thousands of Americans are murdered annually, and yet we do not hear about America's abject failure as a democracy, that it is a decrepit civic project foisted on us by lying neo-cons.
Let us admit that there have been less than ideal things that have occurred in Iraq over the last three years. Let us bend our knees and beg for mercy. Mistakes have been made. Mistakes will be made. But let us also note that critics of the war do so from a supposed enlightened position, arguing that Iraq, or war in general, is only commendable when everything about military action is handled perfectly. In fact, let us go one step further, and suggest, hyperbolically perhaps, that critics of the war are a bit like vacationers who can only relax if everything about a trip goes "perfectly." For the rest of us, imperfections are proof that we are alive, giving us broken things to fix and broken things from which to learn. A perfect war, or a perfect reason for war, is a dream for leftist war critics, who have a penchant for longing for a perfect world. The rest of us, dystopic to the core, are grateful that utopia is not achievable, for the world would be a bland place if utopia was achieved. For utopia leaves us with the blandness of a cruise ship vacation or a Florida retirement resort.
But this is not about justifying war because it makes us stronger or teaches us lessons. This is to justify the lessons as an unavoidable consequence of being engaged in the pursuit of peace and justice in a violent, Darwinian world. For if Darwin is right, then utopia is not only not achievable, violence is not avoidable nor is war ever going to be perfect.
I wonder, should I give up on my marriage after three anniversaries merely because it is difficult and costly? Should I give up on my "baby" because she is not conforming to my expectations of a 3-year-old? Should I quit redesigning my house because it is taking too long, or that it is too hard on my hands? Should I quit my job after three annual reviews, because it is not a perfect job? Should I cut down my newly-planted elm because it is growing too slowly, bending a bit mid-trunk? And should I retreat from Boston because it is a violent, backward and forsaken place?
If a person wants Iraq to really become a breeding ground for terrorists, let that person withdraw American and coalition forces immediately. If a person wants to turn the Middle East against America, let that person pull America out of Iraq before Iraq has gotten back on its feet. If a person wants failure, then by all means, let them acquit themselves of his or her commitment when the going gets rough, right at the outset of their senior year. Who cares about that diploma, anyway?
Iraq, we pray for you.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
Monday, March 20, 2006
I Am Not Tom Wolfe
[Thanks to those of you who commented after reading my Stuck On Holiness post. It seems that all of you like the diversity of material here, so I will continue to whimsically wend my way through the random and the chancey. Peace.]
In a recent interview with the Wall Street Journal, novelist and social critic Tom Wolfe made the following statements about the digital life (I quote in context):
Mr. Wolfe says he has "no theoretical bias against any of it," but still, he seems to find our relentless digital pitch rather cretinous. "Using the Internet is the modern form of knitting," he continues. "It's something to do with idle hands. When you knitted, though, you actually had something to show for it at the end. Thomas Jefferson used to answer all his mail from the day before as soon as he got up at dawn. In his position, think of the number of emails he'd have had. He never would have been Thomas Jefferson if he'd been scrupulous about answering all these things. I think email is a wonderful time-waster. It's peerless. Here it is," he concludes, "you can establish contact--useless contact--with innumerable human beings."
I am wondering, do you agree with Mr. Wolfe? I don't, fully.
Yes, I agree that the much if not most of the Internet is vacuous, empty, an echoless void. But so much of human ingenuity is this way. Even my very soul grips for God so as to spare itself from the black hole deep within. Nevertheless, much of the contact I make in my daily life is useful, and not useless; and so too of my contact on the WWW. There are gems that I receive here everyday, and I try to hand out as many as I can. No doubt there are times that my gems are tossed to swine, finally trampled beneath cloven hoof. But there is real light shining in many digital places. I am encouraged that many of the brightest lights are not hiding under a bushel. Egads, we all know how dark it can be in here. We also know many people are going to pass through this digital rail station looking for something. Someone, don't you think, needs to have a kiosk set along the platform where travellers might find direction, sustenance or merely a kind word?
Of course, Wolfe is really talking about email, which is indeed an oft-abused excuse for simply reminding others of one's existence. But I think his comments, or at least how they are presented by the interviewer, hint at damning the whole of the Internet. And the Internet might be damnable. But it would be wrong to suggest that no meaningful contact occurs in this medium as it skids to perdition. After all, if no meaningful contact is established through digitally printed words, why would Wolfe be content as a novelist, since there is not much meaningful contact in his preferred medium either? And really blogging is little more than email on a grander scale, only without the rather ignominious pestering of readers by knocking on their email boxes. People come to read blogs intentionally, bringing with them even an interest in engaging the author of a particular essay in a bona-fide one-on-one. You can't find that sort of thing anywhere else, even in a Tom Wolfe essay.
But I would be remiss to leave you with the impression that Wolfe said nothing interesting. For you writers (and avid readers) out there, I urge you to read the whole piece. It's quite enlightening.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
In a recent interview with the Wall Street Journal, novelist and social critic Tom Wolfe made the following statements about the digital life (I quote in context):
Mr. Wolfe says he has "no theoretical bias against any of it," but still, he seems to find our relentless digital pitch rather cretinous. "Using the Internet is the modern form of knitting," he continues. "It's something to do with idle hands. When you knitted, though, you actually had something to show for it at the end. Thomas Jefferson used to answer all his mail from the day before as soon as he got up at dawn. In his position, think of the number of emails he'd have had. He never would have been Thomas Jefferson if he'd been scrupulous about answering all these things. I think email is a wonderful time-waster. It's peerless. Here it is," he concludes, "you can establish contact--useless contact--with innumerable human beings."
I am wondering, do you agree with Mr. Wolfe? I don't, fully.
Yes, I agree that the much if not most of the Internet is vacuous, empty, an echoless void. But so much of human ingenuity is this way. Even my very soul grips for God so as to spare itself from the black hole deep within. Nevertheless, much of the contact I make in my daily life is useful, and not useless; and so too of my contact on the WWW. There are gems that I receive here everyday, and I try to hand out as many as I can. No doubt there are times that my gems are tossed to swine, finally trampled beneath cloven hoof. But there is real light shining in many digital places. I am encouraged that many of the brightest lights are not hiding under a bushel. Egads, we all know how dark it can be in here. We also know many people are going to pass through this digital rail station looking for something. Someone, don't you think, needs to have a kiosk set along the platform where travellers might find direction, sustenance or merely a kind word?
Of course, Wolfe is really talking about email, which is indeed an oft-abused excuse for simply reminding others of one's existence. But I think his comments, or at least how they are presented by the interviewer, hint at damning the whole of the Internet. And the Internet might be damnable. But it would be wrong to suggest that no meaningful contact occurs in this medium as it skids to perdition. After all, if no meaningful contact is established through digitally printed words, why would Wolfe be content as a novelist, since there is not much meaningful contact in his preferred medium either? And really blogging is little more than email on a grander scale, only without the rather ignominious pestering of readers by knocking on their email boxes. People come to read blogs intentionally, bringing with them even an interest in engaging the author of a particular essay in a bona-fide one-on-one. You can't find that sort of thing anywhere else, even in a Tom Wolfe essay.
But I would be remiss to leave you with the impression that Wolfe said nothing interesting. For you writers (and avid readers) out there, I urge you to read the whole piece. It's quite enlightening.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
A Eucharistic Chore, Trash Bags In Hand
Yesterday I cleaned out the refrigerator. Rarely is this a pleasant chore, and yesterday was no exception. For I found all sorts of things I would rather not find; and there were a few smells that were anything but harbingers of spring. I also discovered that what I uncovered was a set of bad investments, a terrible waste of money. But most importantly I discovered a chest full of metaphors.
For on the back of the top shelf, I found two gallons of confidence, now grown moldy, thick with putrescence. Next to them, in a tightly closed jar, I found several pickles of bad memories, soured beyond the palate's care. Next, I found several dozen rotten eggs of resentment, and a half-dozen kernels of canned jealousy decaying beneath loose plastic. Under a tin of anxieties, I found one pound of unsliced unforgiveness and two pounds of gratitude. And then there was a cracked dish, leaking Time.
On the middle shelf I found three cans of sins of omission and four of commission; under them rested a clouded bag filled with tortillas of tortured dreams. There was one can of whipped fury; another of unopened desires. There was a zip-lock bag of good intentions; and several bottles of half-used faith and un-used hope. And there was an uncorked bottle of merlot, the red wine of forgotten birthdays, anniversaries and thank-you notes, now little more than vinegar and gall.
In the bottom drawers I found once-ripe talents now shrunken to shriveled pith or, in some cases, grown in size, with tumorous fungi rendering them unknowable. On the doors there were countless fermented wishlists; there was one large bottle jammed with the beginnings of myriad projects; in a bottle of beer, I found a dry twig of mirth. In the cheese drawer I found the rancid butter of regrettable words; on the butter tray I found the grease of temptation and lust. In the cold-cuts bin I found bloated promises that should have been burned on an altar, or nailed to a Cross. And there, in the bin's back reaches, I found an unopened carton of forgiveness.
In the freezer I found a box of frozen grace, which was very heavy to lift. Adjacent was another little dish, half-filled with more Time. Beneath an air-tight plastic container full of procrastination, were several slices of joy, wrapped in aluminum foil. Next to them, in the ice tray, I found cubes of blood mixed with water, carelessly placed beside a loaf of brittle unleavened bread. Lastly, in the corner, I found an open box of baking soda, with Arms and Hands on its label raised in prayer, now stiffened from absorbing too much neglect.
Today, I continue to try to throw out the bad and thaw out the good, leaving the doors to the fridge wide open. I promise to clean out the old No-Name refrigerator more than once every 44 years. And I promise to thaw the cubes of wine, and receive the bread, with something approaching thanksgiving. Or so I pray.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
tagged:Christianity
For on the back of the top shelf, I found two gallons of confidence, now grown moldy, thick with putrescence. Next to them, in a tightly closed jar, I found several pickles of bad memories, soured beyond the palate's care. Next, I found several dozen rotten eggs of resentment, and a half-dozen kernels of canned jealousy decaying beneath loose plastic. Under a tin of anxieties, I found one pound of unsliced unforgiveness and two pounds of gratitude. And then there was a cracked dish, leaking Time.
On the middle shelf I found three cans of sins of omission and four of commission; under them rested a clouded bag filled with tortillas of tortured dreams. There was one can of whipped fury; another of unopened desires. There was a zip-lock bag of good intentions; and several bottles of half-used faith and un-used hope. And there was an uncorked bottle of merlot, the red wine of forgotten birthdays, anniversaries and thank-you notes, now little more than vinegar and gall.
In the bottom drawers I found once-ripe talents now shrunken to shriveled pith or, in some cases, grown in size, with tumorous fungi rendering them unknowable. On the doors there were countless fermented wishlists; there was one large bottle jammed with the beginnings of myriad projects; in a bottle of beer, I found a dry twig of mirth. In the cheese drawer I found the rancid butter of regrettable words; on the butter tray I found the grease of temptation and lust. In the cold-cuts bin I found bloated promises that should have been burned on an altar, or nailed to a Cross. And there, in the bin's back reaches, I found an unopened carton of forgiveness.
In the freezer I found a box of frozen grace, which was very heavy to lift. Adjacent was another little dish, half-filled with more Time. Beneath an air-tight plastic container full of procrastination, were several slices of joy, wrapped in aluminum foil. Next to them, in the ice tray, I found cubes of blood mixed with water, carelessly placed beside a loaf of brittle unleavened bread. Lastly, in the corner, I found an open box of baking soda, with Arms and Hands on its label raised in prayer, now stiffened from absorbing too much neglect.
Today, I continue to try to throw out the bad and thaw out the good, leaving the doors to the fridge wide open. I promise to clean out the old No-Name refrigerator more than once every 44 years. And I promise to thaw the cubes of wine, and receive the bread, with something approaching thanksgiving. Or so I pray.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
tagged:Christianity
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Like A Proud Father (Only I'm A Brother)
For you jocks out there with a love of things Christian, and of the literary and thoughtful, I submit for your enjoyment this link. It is an essay written by ESPN editor Bruce Deckert, who is one of the best and brightest from my alma mater. I am honored to commend his work to you (I've always expected great things from him). It is also an honor to have him call me friend; as it was an honor to be his R.A. for two years back in little old Rider House. Please, enjoy.
Peace.
BG
Peace.
BG
Norman Mailer And You, Unplugged
[It was only three days, but it was a great three days. I took my 16-year-old son and his two buddies for three nights/three days of skiing/snowboarding fun at Sunday River, the massive resort in Maine. I return to this desk sore, wicked sore. But it was a perfect little getaway, staying as we did in a slopeside hotel. Plus, it's so picking easy to get there: 190 miles with just two traffic lights (well, there's another one, but it's a non-stop right hand turn) between here and there. Zoom, zoom indeed. And because of the spring conditions, my three charges followed me down several double-black diamond trails (the tough ones), which are accessible when the snow is soft. Not that any of you are interested ...]
While lounging after dinner in my hotel suite this weekend, I happened upon a discussion with America's man of letters, Norman Mailer, televised on C-Span. Now, I know nothing about Mr. Mailer. If I've read one sentence penned by him then I must have done so in a hurry, for I recall nothing. But there was something he said that interested me, not because it was original or brilliant, but because it is something I've been saying for 20 years (I'll take any tuppence I can find that makes me feel like I am a 'player').
Mailer, while discussing the place of the novel in American life (it is agreed that the novel is not nearly as central to the American mind as it once was), divined that one of the worst things for the human soul is the television commercial. Mailer argued that the ability for humans to concentrate, to pay attention to something without interruption, has been befouled by the TV advertisement (hence, corrupting interest in long-term reading projects). For Mailer, it is impossible to enter into a character or his plight; or to enter into a heroine's story and be fully involved in her world, if every 8 to 12 minutes a viewer is interrupted; if consciousness is disturbed by the machinery of marketing. Mailer, in fact, believes (I think) that there is even perhaps a correlation between attention disorders and such interruptions.
I don't know about the clinical research behind Mailer's claims, or even if there is any. But I will agree with much of what he said. But Mailer is missing something, I think, that is more important: it's not the commercials that interrupt attention, it's the medium itself.
I love to go to theatrical plays. Not that I go often. In fact, I now go rather rarely. But I get far more out of reading rather than watching a play, for I am too interested, or too distracted, by everything around me. I can't listen to nuanced dialogue and also absorb the subtleties of the set-pieces, of the lighting and backdrop and blocked out props; or of the supporting actors' gestures. In short, there is often too much going on for me to attend to the play.
Oddly, the same goes for movies. My favorite film of all time, the under-rated "O Brother, Where Art Thou?", which is a loose translation of Homer's Odyssey, is loaded with good humor and brilliant witticism, but much of it was invisible to me during my first viewing. Nonetheless, I still immensely enjoyed the film. And while I recognize that "O Brother, ..." is clearly a love-it-or-hate-it film, it takes a considerable amount of concentration to determine whether one indeed loves it or hates it. It is not a simple film; it's not really what it looks like. It's like M. Night Shylaman's "Signs", another film I loved (though I loathed it after the first viewing): it is not about what one thinks it is (aliens), but about a Christian regaining his faith (after losing it in tragedy). "Signs" is emphatically NOT about alien invasions; it's about the transcendent, the prophetic, and the power of faith in the midst of meaninglessness. But my point is that even when we concentrate on films, it's hard to get the full scale of a film's import, theme, or message.
And what makes film (and TV) hard is not the projector breakdowns or the commercials that may interrupt a person's concentration; it's the medium itself. You see, each image, stuck firmly in the realm of the two-dimensional, requires a certain frame of mind, a certain gestalt or perspective, even one that produces a certain emotional reaction, to make sense of what is seen. In film and TV, images move faster than they do in real life: we can go from a funeral to a wedding to a desert to an alpine village to a morgue to a baseball field, all in just a few brief seconds. Each image, even each camera angle, requires a reaction that differs from another: one is not to feel the same during "Crash" from one vignette to the next, nor can one feel the same from scene-to-scene. There is a barrage of images and stories, a tumult of camera turns and emotions, that get broken and interrupted by a film's pacing and editing. Constant concentration is near impossible; the nerves can, and do, get frazzled.
One look at the evening news or even a newspaper drives this point home. In 2 minutes one might hear or read about a wondrous birth of a child in a jetliner, the mutilation of a young girl, a donation to a hospital, a fire that consumed an elderly couple; a recession in the housing market and a bullish technology market; a monsoon in Pakistan and a cloudless day in Alabama. Each of these requires a different intellectual and emotional response. Can the heart and mind keep up with this barrage, with the rapid shiftings of tone and topic? I wonder.
And then there is music. Radios, CDs, iPods, MP3 players: each of these (along with other electronic media), not only provide bombardment of our ears in our shopping malls, cars and bedrooms, with each song quickly eliciting a variety of emotions from us as we listen, these technologies permit the constant re-eliciting of these same emotional responses. Unlike our ancestors, who rarely attended theater or symphony and had no access to recorded materials, a fact which forced them to pay attention, we can blithely and superficially absorb our visits to places, theaters, and concerts knowing that we can always return to video and audio recordings. And we DO return, over and over again, visiting old emotions associated with events long past, perhaps even reliving feelings -- or perpetuating feelings -- that we should have been healed of or outgrown. In fact, there are countless songs that I accidently land on while touring the radio dial that bring me back (often unconsciously) to old, old feelings I really need never to relive. Should I really be singing along (again!) with Eric Carmen -- All by myself!! -- or Elton John -- Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road! -- while driving home to my family? Should I really be piping "I can't liiiiiive, with or without you?", thinking about an old girlfriend when I am driving in my wife's car?
Similarly, is it really good to see old TV shows, over and over; is it good to submit daily to a constant barrage of changing scenery and sounds and themes and feelings and tragedies and joys that are nothing but someone else's? I mean, imagine taking a child who has done nothing but jumped through every digital scene and song that lasts no longer than a few minutes and then ask him (now that he is of working age), to show up on the first day of summer break to paint a house, where he may stay on one side, looking at the same scene, doing the same thing, for 40 hours?
Alas, it is interesting to think of these things, especially in light of some recent evidence suggesting that people vulnerable to Alzheimer's may have led lives often spent in reverie, often lost in the romance of Memory Lane. In short, Alzheimer's might be the disease of living in memory too often or too much, which is exactly what a lot of TV, replayed cinema, and recorded music asks you to do everyday.
So my departure from Norman Mailer is two-fold. I think the various electronic media we adore these days (and have for a couple of generations), require too much emotional response from us in too short a time (think of the news or 12 different broadcast rock songs in 40 minutes), thus dulling us emotionally to what is properly required of our emotional and intellectual attention. And I think that recorded materials constantly drag us back into the past, often to things that we should forget or get beyond. Again, why dredge up old feelings of regret, lost love, sin, or even distant triumph every second of our commutes to and from work? For surely these constantly jolt us from what we should remain focused on.
This ultimately points to something even bigger, namely, that in a sense all of our technologies that speak to the mind and emotions (many of them) serve to actually hypnotize us: we are in a trance and we do not know it. For we get addicted to these things: they pull us to emotions many of which are not only bad for us, distancing us from our own lives, but they are not even our emotions or even our stories: they are someone else's.
I am not recommending a sudden and complete rejection of all things technological. I am only encouraging myself, really, to be mindful of my media addictions and the real harm such addictions cause. Reading a novel surely can be an escape from concentrating on important OTHER things, even though reading does permit more control over the speed of the emotions and images presented therein: I decide how fast a novel moves. But what I must do is protect myself from too much information, or else I run the risk of becoming addicted to the emotional and chronological breaks between data, interrupting my ability to fully concentrate; or I run the risk of living in a media induced reverie, forcing me to miss out on my own present moment. I need to mindfully control the input, for there is much I need to protect: myself, which is all that I've really got to give to you, my family, and my God.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
While lounging after dinner in my hotel suite this weekend, I happened upon a discussion with America's man of letters, Norman Mailer, televised on C-Span. Now, I know nothing about Mr. Mailer. If I've read one sentence penned by him then I must have done so in a hurry, for I recall nothing. But there was something he said that interested me, not because it was original or brilliant, but because it is something I've been saying for 20 years (I'll take any tuppence I can find that makes me feel like I am a 'player').
Mailer, while discussing the place of the novel in American life (it is agreed that the novel is not nearly as central to the American mind as it once was), divined that one of the worst things for the human soul is the television commercial. Mailer argued that the ability for humans to concentrate, to pay attention to something without interruption, has been befouled by the TV advertisement (hence, corrupting interest in long-term reading projects). For Mailer, it is impossible to enter into a character or his plight; or to enter into a heroine's story and be fully involved in her world, if every 8 to 12 minutes a viewer is interrupted; if consciousness is disturbed by the machinery of marketing. Mailer, in fact, believes (I think) that there is even perhaps a correlation between attention disorders and such interruptions.
I don't know about the clinical research behind Mailer's claims, or even if there is any. But I will agree with much of what he said. But Mailer is missing something, I think, that is more important: it's not the commercials that interrupt attention, it's the medium itself.
I love to go to theatrical plays. Not that I go often. In fact, I now go rather rarely. But I get far more out of reading rather than watching a play, for I am too interested, or too distracted, by everything around me. I can't listen to nuanced dialogue and also absorb the subtleties of the set-pieces, of the lighting and backdrop and blocked out props; or of the supporting actors' gestures. In short, there is often too much going on for me to attend to the play.
Oddly, the same goes for movies. My favorite film of all time, the under-rated "O Brother, Where Art Thou?", which is a loose translation of Homer's Odyssey, is loaded with good humor and brilliant witticism, but much of it was invisible to me during my first viewing. Nonetheless, I still immensely enjoyed the film. And while I recognize that "O Brother, ..." is clearly a love-it-or-hate-it film, it takes a considerable amount of concentration to determine whether one indeed loves it or hates it. It is not a simple film; it's not really what it looks like. It's like M. Night Shylaman's "Signs", another film I loved (though I loathed it after the first viewing): it is not about what one thinks it is (aliens), but about a Christian regaining his faith (after losing it in tragedy). "Signs" is emphatically NOT about alien invasions; it's about the transcendent, the prophetic, and the power of faith in the midst of meaninglessness. But my point is that even when we concentrate on films, it's hard to get the full scale of a film's import, theme, or message.
And what makes film (and TV) hard is not the projector breakdowns or the commercials that may interrupt a person's concentration; it's the medium itself. You see, each image, stuck firmly in the realm of the two-dimensional, requires a certain frame of mind, a certain gestalt or perspective, even one that produces a certain emotional reaction, to make sense of what is seen. In film and TV, images move faster than they do in real life: we can go from a funeral to a wedding to a desert to an alpine village to a morgue to a baseball field, all in just a few brief seconds. Each image, even each camera angle, requires a reaction that differs from another: one is not to feel the same during "Crash" from one vignette to the next, nor can one feel the same from scene-to-scene. There is a barrage of images and stories, a tumult of camera turns and emotions, that get broken and interrupted by a film's pacing and editing. Constant concentration is near impossible; the nerves can, and do, get frazzled.
One look at the evening news or even a newspaper drives this point home. In 2 minutes one might hear or read about a wondrous birth of a child in a jetliner, the mutilation of a young girl, a donation to a hospital, a fire that consumed an elderly couple; a recession in the housing market and a bullish technology market; a monsoon in Pakistan and a cloudless day in Alabama. Each of these requires a different intellectual and emotional response. Can the heart and mind keep up with this barrage, with the rapid shiftings of tone and topic? I wonder.
And then there is music. Radios, CDs, iPods, MP3 players: each of these (along with other electronic media), not only provide bombardment of our ears in our shopping malls, cars and bedrooms, with each song quickly eliciting a variety of emotions from us as we listen, these technologies permit the constant re-eliciting of these same emotional responses. Unlike our ancestors, who rarely attended theater or symphony and had no access to recorded materials, a fact which forced them to pay attention, we can blithely and superficially absorb our visits to places, theaters, and concerts knowing that we can always return to video and audio recordings. And we DO return, over and over again, visiting old emotions associated with events long past, perhaps even reliving feelings -- or perpetuating feelings -- that we should have been healed of or outgrown. In fact, there are countless songs that I accidently land on while touring the radio dial that bring me back (often unconsciously) to old, old feelings I really need never to relive. Should I really be singing along (again!) with Eric Carmen -- All by myself!! -- or Elton John -- Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road! -- while driving home to my family? Should I really be piping "I can't liiiiiive, with or without you?", thinking about an old girlfriend when I am driving in my wife's car?
Similarly, is it really good to see old TV shows, over and over; is it good to submit daily to a constant barrage of changing scenery and sounds and themes and feelings and tragedies and joys that are nothing but someone else's? I mean, imagine taking a child who has done nothing but jumped through every digital scene and song that lasts no longer than a few minutes and then ask him (now that he is of working age), to show up on the first day of summer break to paint a house, where he may stay on one side, looking at the same scene, doing the same thing, for 40 hours?
Alas, it is interesting to think of these things, especially in light of some recent evidence suggesting that people vulnerable to Alzheimer's may have led lives often spent in reverie, often lost in the romance of Memory Lane. In short, Alzheimer's might be the disease of living in memory too often or too much, which is exactly what a lot of TV, replayed cinema, and recorded music asks you to do everyday.
So my departure from Norman Mailer is two-fold. I think the various electronic media we adore these days (and have for a couple of generations), require too much emotional response from us in too short a time (think of the news or 12 different broadcast rock songs in 40 minutes), thus dulling us emotionally to what is properly required of our emotional and intellectual attention. And I think that recorded materials constantly drag us back into the past, often to things that we should forget or get beyond. Again, why dredge up old feelings of regret, lost love, sin, or even distant triumph every second of our commutes to and from work? For surely these constantly jolt us from what we should remain focused on.
This ultimately points to something even bigger, namely, that in a sense all of our technologies that speak to the mind and emotions (many of them) serve to actually hypnotize us: we are in a trance and we do not know it. For we get addicted to these things: they pull us to emotions many of which are not only bad for us, distancing us from our own lives, but they are not even our emotions or even our stories: they are someone else's.
I am not recommending a sudden and complete rejection of all things technological. I am only encouraging myself, really, to be mindful of my media addictions and the real harm such addictions cause. Reading a novel surely can be an escape from concentrating on important OTHER things, even though reading does permit more control over the speed of the emotions and images presented therein: I decide how fast a novel moves. But what I must do is protect myself from too much information, or else I run the risk of becoming addicted to the emotional and chronological breaks between data, interrupting my ability to fully concentrate; or I run the risk of living in a media induced reverie, forcing me to miss out on my own present moment. I need to mindfully control the input, for there is much I need to protect: myself, which is all that I've really got to give to you, my family, and my God.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Life's Accidental Lessons?
[Again, please take a moment to read Stuck On Holiness. I would like to hear from you about the direction I should take here at Contratimes. Thanks.]
I am in haste, as I have to leave for a few days (of fun) and will not be back to this desk until Tuesday, March 14, or so I hope. But in my haste I want to ask a dumb question: Is there such a thing as a dumb question?
We have all heard it before, perhaps in school, church, college, or in the presence of a lawyer. You know what I am talking about, that ubiquitous assertion that "there is no such thing as a dumb question." It is a lie, don't you think? Well, if not a lie, at least it's a misstatement, no, one made with the best intentions, almost offered obsequiously to assure the dumb that they are not in fact dumb as boots?
When I was an RA (resident assistant) at college (early 1980's), living in the "last house on the left," where thirty male students, scholars all (except for 26 of them), lived on the very fringe of campus, I learned the power of the dumb question. You see, our small house (it really was a house, barely), known formally as Rider House, was situated on the dangerous side of a T-intersection: should any driver fail to negotiate Hull Street, he or she might skid across Grapevine and land in Bill Spies' bedroom. It was a rather bold stand for Rider to take against the tide of traffic, but we were a bold house, going where few men dared to travel (like to the Dean of Students' office for some encouragement). I mean, I was solely responsible for the suspension of the student body President and VP, who just happened to stumble into Rider toting contraband (there was contraband in every room, save a few, but these guys were visitors). I mean, there was some traffic against which Rider had to stand firm.
Well, late one rainy night, while I was preparing to think about starting the process of possibly going to bed at a reasonable pre-sunrise hour, Bill Spies came running to my room, a neat corner bunky tucked safely on the backside of the house. His tone was urgent: a car had crashed into the front of the house, directly outside his room (I hadn't heard a thing, which was odd.) Several of us Rider guys bolted toward the front door.
As big brother of the house, I came down the front steps first. To the right of the steps, smashed against the only small tree that stood between the house and the street, was a black Mazda RX-7, its front end crumpled mere inches from the house, its lights still partly on, its wipers uselessly flipping back the falling rain from a shattered windshield. A man, late 20s to early 30s, stood slumped over the car's low roof, half-crying and fully swearing. A cloud of hissing steam gushed up in a pungent rush of anti-freeze from the punctured radiator. Clearly the car was totalled.
I surveyed the car's path. Sure enough, it had screamed through the Hull-Grapevine intersection, kicked the curb, slammed into a small stonewall, and bounced through sodden sod to its place against a surprisingly rugged birch tree. The whole scene was probably 50-feet in length, with bits of car tossed here and there, rocks knocked about, and deep gouges in the lawn.
After determining that the driver was OK (he refused to come in, being somewhat inconsolable), and after placing calls to Campus Security, we waited for help to arrive. Surprisingly, Campus Security arrived in haste, in its pale mint-green Chevy Nova, green light (it wasn't really blue) a-flashing from the dashboard. With an indecisive U-turn in the intersection, the cruiser came to a passive halt. An officer got out, tugging on his hat and adjusting his official rain-poncho, and approached the accident scene. Realizing that we were perhaps in the way of any official protocol, the few of us Rider guys still outside removed ourselves to a safe distance, finding shelter atop the front steps beneath the small porch roof. There Victor and Smitty and Spies and I huddled together, witnesses to rescue work.
As we watched in expectant, well-past midnight silence, the security officer sauntered up to the smashed Mazda, set as it was no more than 10 inches from the house and curled around a tree, its driver holding his head down in the steamy dark, crying into his deep, unfortunate wreckage. The officer stepped closer, with a swagger of authority, and (we all say he did this), placing his hands on his hips and setting his feet apart asked, with due seriousness, "So! What seems to be the problem here?"
Now, if airbags had been invented for protection against sudden and violent laughter, witnesses would have seen those bags deploy in an explosive response to the violent laughter that assaulted those of us gathered on the front steps. The guffaw was louder than a car crash; and we were suddenly drunk with laughter, gasping for air, doubled over, nearly herniating ourselves. Somehow we found the doorknob and stumbled back into Rider so our laughter would not disturb the "investigation" that our Campus Security detective was initiating. Tears flowed, sides ached; a few housemates asked us to hush. But we were out of ourselves, lost in an accidental ecstasy.
That moment for each of us marks one of the most memorable laughs of our lives, perhaps the most memorable. And in the dark of that foggy night, we each learned, clearly and wonderfully, that there are indeed such things as dumb questions.
Personally, I've not been the same since: it's why I wear a truss. Alright, I'm lying about the truss. I don't wear it, but I should.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
I am in haste, as I have to leave for a few days (of fun) and will not be back to this desk until Tuesday, March 14, or so I hope. But in my haste I want to ask a dumb question: Is there such a thing as a dumb question?
We have all heard it before, perhaps in school, church, college, or in the presence of a lawyer. You know what I am talking about, that ubiquitous assertion that "there is no such thing as a dumb question." It is a lie, don't you think? Well, if not a lie, at least it's a misstatement, no, one made with the best intentions, almost offered obsequiously to assure the dumb that they are not in fact dumb as boots?
When I was an RA (resident assistant) at college (early 1980's), living in the "last house on the left," where thirty male students, scholars all (except for 26 of them), lived on the very fringe of campus, I learned the power of the dumb question. You see, our small house (it really was a house, barely), known formally as Rider House, was situated on the dangerous side of a T-intersection: should any driver fail to negotiate Hull Street, he or she might skid across Grapevine and land in Bill Spies' bedroom. It was a rather bold stand for Rider to take against the tide of traffic, but we were a bold house, going where few men dared to travel (like to the Dean of Students' office for some encouragement). I mean, I was solely responsible for the suspension of the student body President and VP, who just happened to stumble into Rider toting contraband (there was contraband in every room, save a few, but these guys were visitors). I mean, there was some traffic against which Rider had to stand firm.
Well, late one rainy night, while I was preparing to think about starting the process of possibly going to bed at a reasonable pre-sunrise hour, Bill Spies came running to my room, a neat corner bunky tucked safely on the backside of the house. His tone was urgent: a car had crashed into the front of the house, directly outside his room (I hadn't heard a thing, which was odd.) Several of us Rider guys bolted toward the front door.
As big brother of the house, I came down the front steps first. To the right of the steps, smashed against the only small tree that stood between the house and the street, was a black Mazda RX-7, its front end crumpled mere inches from the house, its lights still partly on, its wipers uselessly flipping back the falling rain from a shattered windshield. A man, late 20s to early 30s, stood slumped over the car's low roof, half-crying and fully swearing. A cloud of hissing steam gushed up in a pungent rush of anti-freeze from the punctured radiator. Clearly the car was totalled.
I surveyed the car's path. Sure enough, it had screamed through the Hull-Grapevine intersection, kicked the curb, slammed into a small stonewall, and bounced through sodden sod to its place against a surprisingly rugged birch tree. The whole scene was probably 50-feet in length, with bits of car tossed here and there, rocks knocked about, and deep gouges in the lawn.
After determining that the driver was OK (he refused to come in, being somewhat inconsolable), and after placing calls to Campus Security, we waited for help to arrive. Surprisingly, Campus Security arrived in haste, in its pale mint-green Chevy Nova, green light (it wasn't really blue) a-flashing from the dashboard. With an indecisive U-turn in the intersection, the cruiser came to a passive halt. An officer got out, tugging on his hat and adjusting his official rain-poncho, and approached the accident scene. Realizing that we were perhaps in the way of any official protocol, the few of us Rider guys still outside removed ourselves to a safe distance, finding shelter atop the front steps beneath the small porch roof. There Victor and Smitty and Spies and I huddled together, witnesses to rescue work.
As we watched in expectant, well-past midnight silence, the security officer sauntered up to the smashed Mazda, set as it was no more than 10 inches from the house and curled around a tree, its driver holding his head down in the steamy dark, crying into his deep, unfortunate wreckage. The officer stepped closer, with a swagger of authority, and (we all say he did this), placing his hands on his hips and setting his feet apart asked, with due seriousness, "So! What seems to be the problem here?"
Now, if airbags had been invented for protection against sudden and violent laughter, witnesses would have seen those bags deploy in an explosive response to the violent laughter that assaulted those of us gathered on the front steps. The guffaw was louder than a car crash; and we were suddenly drunk with laughter, gasping for air, doubled over, nearly herniating ourselves. Somehow we found the doorknob and stumbled back into Rider so our laughter would not disturb the "investigation" that our Campus Security detective was initiating. Tears flowed, sides ached; a few housemates asked us to hush. But we were out of ourselves, lost in an accidental ecstasy.
That moment for each of us marks one of the most memorable laughs of our lives, perhaps the most memorable. And in the dark of that foggy night, we each learned, clearly and wonderfully, that there are indeed such things as dumb questions.
Personally, I've not been the same since: it's why I wear a truss. Alright, I'm lying about the truss. I don't wear it, but I should.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Sorting Thoughts On Trash
[Please take a moment to read Stuck On Holiness. I would like to hear from you about the direction I should take here at Contratimes. Thanks.]
This will most likely mean nothing to you. But the following little story has a point I think needs making. My one question is whether I am the man to make it.
When I was working at a daily newspaper not far from here, I would often take an almost undue interest in a little Ford Escort wagon parked outside the building in which I worked. It was a perfectly normal little car; there was nothing unusual glued to its bumpers, printed on its license plate, or taped to its windows. But what interested me in this car was its interior: there was only room for the driver, since the rest of the car was filled with trash, with papers, plates, boxes and cans. Seriously. It was stacked exactly from the floors to the very top edge of the doors (the front passenger seat was not quite as full, though the floor was packed). And the dashboard was littered with envelopes, empty coffee cups and old napkins.
For a long time I wondered who it was who owned the car, imagining the person's house or apartment. This car, after all, revealed how the owner traveled about in public. What, I wondered, must his or her private life be like?
But I also wondered how it is that anyone could reach a point of being so thoroughly unable to keep his or her car clean. What sort of deficiencies must some folks have who cannot keep their apportioned areas tidy?
I never found out who owned the car, and it wasn't important even if I had. I have my own tidiness issues, after all. Yet there was something about it all that spoke to me, that suggested something to me that I could not express. I could just feel something.
And then, like a bucket of cold water during a hot shower (that old college dorm trick), I gained clarity: the person who owned the car was one of the neatest people in the world, with no difficulties at all keeping things clean.
Yes, you are now invited to snicker at me. I invite you to even scoff at me, if you must. You may laugh, and you may diagnose that I've lost my mind. But I hope you'll pull yourself together, because I am right.
You see, the man (for sake of efficiency here) who owns the car in question is profoundly able, fastidiously so, to keep part of his car perfectly clean, and that is the part from the top of the doors to the roof. You see, he is able to keep his view clear: the car was spotless for about the top two-and-a-half feet. Moreover, it is clear that it took daily effort and discipline to keep that area clear, ensuring that no part of the driver's view in any direction was obscured.
I ask, How is it that a man can keep only part of his world spotless, and yet not the other parts? (I mean, the dirty part of the Escort never, in fact, got dirtier.) And if the man whose house is filled with stacks of trash nonetheless has perfectly clean paths from room to room, how come he can't make those paths wider, until there is no trash at all? If I can clean my house until it is spotless, why can't I clean out my closests and junk drawers? In short, why do I stop cleaning and organizing? In one very real sense, the man whose car we are discussing manages everyday--and in some very bizarre way--to keep his trash from getting dirty. How does he manage to be so fastidious?
My point in these observations is partly to suggest that I was wrong for thinking that the little Ford Escort was driven by a person who had no capacity for tidiness. Egads, I was really wrong. But it is also to point out something else: that we are each in need of a full cleaning, and yet we stop, permitting some parts of us to remain rather thoroughly messy. We clean off the veneers and vacuum the living spaces, while ignoring the closets, the drawers, the undersides of furniture. We fuss over our windows, and neglect our barns. We trim our hair and polish our nails, and yet forget our well-hidden feet. Why? It's surely not due to incapacities: we manage to sanctify ourselves quite well in several obvious areas. Why do we stop at the edge of the brushed-nickle pulls on our kitchen draws?
I admit I am being silly. But there is something true here, though that truth be somewhat hidden. There is something true here about our relationships with the world, our brothers and sisters, our spouses and friends, and our God; and what might be hidden is the fact that we are more capable than we think.
Just look through those clear windows and see.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
This will most likely mean nothing to you. But the following little story has a point I think needs making. My one question is whether I am the man to make it.
When I was working at a daily newspaper not far from here, I would often take an almost undue interest in a little Ford Escort wagon parked outside the building in which I worked. It was a perfectly normal little car; there was nothing unusual glued to its bumpers, printed on its license plate, or taped to its windows. But what interested me in this car was its interior: there was only room for the driver, since the rest of the car was filled with trash, with papers, plates, boxes and cans. Seriously. It was stacked exactly from the floors to the very top edge of the doors (the front passenger seat was not quite as full, though the floor was packed). And the dashboard was littered with envelopes, empty coffee cups and old napkins.
For a long time I wondered who it was who owned the car, imagining the person's house or apartment. This car, after all, revealed how the owner traveled about in public. What, I wondered, must his or her private life be like?
But I also wondered how it is that anyone could reach a point of being so thoroughly unable to keep his or her car clean. What sort of deficiencies must some folks have who cannot keep their apportioned areas tidy?
I never found out who owned the car, and it wasn't important even if I had. I have my own tidiness issues, after all. Yet there was something about it all that spoke to me, that suggested something to me that I could not express. I could just feel something.
And then, like a bucket of cold water during a hot shower (that old college dorm trick), I gained clarity: the person who owned the car was one of the neatest people in the world, with no difficulties at all keeping things clean.
Yes, you are now invited to snicker at me. I invite you to even scoff at me, if you must. You may laugh, and you may diagnose that I've lost my mind. But I hope you'll pull yourself together, because I am right.
You see, the man (for sake of efficiency here) who owns the car in question is profoundly able, fastidiously so, to keep part of his car perfectly clean, and that is the part from the top of the doors to the roof. You see, he is able to keep his view clear: the car was spotless for about the top two-and-a-half feet. Moreover, it is clear that it took daily effort and discipline to keep that area clear, ensuring that no part of the driver's view in any direction was obscured.
I ask, How is it that a man can keep only part of his world spotless, and yet not the other parts? (I mean, the dirty part of the Escort never, in fact, got dirtier.) And if the man whose house is filled with stacks of trash nonetheless has perfectly clean paths from room to room, how come he can't make those paths wider, until there is no trash at all? If I can clean my house until it is spotless, why can't I clean out my closests and junk drawers? In short, why do I stop cleaning and organizing? In one very real sense, the man whose car we are discussing manages everyday--and in some very bizarre way--to keep his trash from getting dirty. How does he manage to be so fastidious?
My point in these observations is partly to suggest that I was wrong for thinking that the little Ford Escort was driven by a person who had no capacity for tidiness. Egads, I was really wrong. But it is also to point out something else: that we are each in need of a full cleaning, and yet we stop, permitting some parts of us to remain rather thoroughly messy. We clean off the veneers and vacuum the living spaces, while ignoring the closets, the drawers, the undersides of furniture. We fuss over our windows, and neglect our barns. We trim our hair and polish our nails, and yet forget our well-hidden feet. Why? It's surely not due to incapacities: we manage to sanctify ourselves quite well in several obvious areas. Why do we stop at the edge of the brushed-nickle pulls on our kitchen draws?
I admit I am being silly. But there is something true here, though that truth be somewhat hidden. There is something true here about our relationships with the world, our brothers and sisters, our spouses and friends, and our God; and what might be hidden is the fact that we are more capable than we think.
Just look through those clear windows and see.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Stuck On Holiness
I am speechless for the first time since I began this blog nearly one year ago. This is not writer's block, mind you. No, I am merely speechless about all things political. At the moment, I look at political news with disinterest. I cannot find the fire to be upset, to be passionate: I have cooled. Perhaps it is because I am saturated, suffering from ennui. Maybe I've been cooled by so many bipartisan blunderings and blusterings; perhaps I've succumbed to nihilism, resigning myself to the idea that nothing ultimately matters. Or maybe it is all due to an oppressive sense of uncertainty, that there is no one I can trust to give me the straight story without some sort of redaction, obfuscation or deletion.
I have tried to be a straight storyteller, but I know that I have failed at times to get the story straight. But my hope is to purge the crookedness from my reportage and commentary: I do not want to deceive or even win. I merely want to be right for truth's sake. But there is a lot of crookedness around us; there is a lot of dishonesty in each of us. Some folks, however, hate this about themselves, doing everything they can to refine themselves with fire, all in an effort to stand purified, and to stand straight. It is a sad fact that there are other people who could care less about purity.
One of my favorite films is the moving and innocent, Brother Sun, Sister Moon, Franco Zeffirelli's 1972 paean to Sts. Francis and Clare of Assisi. While the film is nearly a flower-power look at the great St. Francis --even being a bit like a trip to the wonderful Wizard of Oz-- it is a lovely film, full of grace and purity. But when the film was released, the Boston Globe printed a bullet-review that defined Brother Sun, Sister Moon as "a film only a saint could love." The Globe gave the film only one star.
The intimation in the Globe's review is that there is something intrinsically revolting about being a saint, making those of us who enjoyed the film feel shame for our inartistic love of mediocrity. While I can take the Globe's opinion as flattery, proclaiming as I must that their statement proves I am a saint, I want to scream out the rather obvious questions: "Who would then not like this film? sociopaths? perverts? sinners? And who would not want to be a saint anyway? What kind of person scoffs at sainthood?"
It is not popular, this idea of purity. Purity is deemed trite, quaint, charming. It is for the dolt, or the shrillish prude. It is even deemed impossible. In the opinion of many, holiness is not for the wise, the sagacious, the cultural elite. Purity is not for the artist. It is for the one-star fool.
Have you ever thought about holiness? Have you ever asked yourself, "What person in his or her right mind would not desire holiness?" It's a great question. And it is especially interesting in light of the absolute dearth of holiness in literature and film. What was the last best-selling novel you read that dealt with holiness? How many films can you recall that presented holiness as something of infinite value? (If you can think of any, please let me know what they are.) How is it that holiness is not part of our culture's artistic and moral ideals? Why the blind eye, or the mocking laugh, at holiness? Has holiness ever hurt anyone?
But I ask nothing of any real import, at least not in the midst of political wrangling and a difficult war.
I am wondering about what you like here when you come visit. Do you prefer my political commentary, or do you prefer my more distinctly religious op-eds? Just to let you know, my religious essays receive far more hits than my more mundane, socio-political commentaries. Should I forgo the political in this blog? Should I start another blog, one that focuses especially on religious matters?
It would be good to hear what you think. This is not an invitation by me to focus on me: I want to focus on you, what you like. Should I opine about George Bush and Howard Dean, or should I comment on prayer, worship, prophecy, or Holy Scripture? Should I be more overtly and plainly Christian, or should I continue to add to the odd collection of literary knick-knacks posted here? What do you want?
I am not suggesting that anything will change, or that anything will change soon. I am just a bit stuck. Perhaps someone could even give me an idea to explore, or a question with which I can wrestle. Not that I lack for ideas. I've got plenty. But are they helpful? Who knows?
I eagerly await your thoughts.
Peace.
BG
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
I have tried to be a straight storyteller, but I know that I have failed at times to get the story straight. But my hope is to purge the crookedness from my reportage and commentary: I do not want to deceive or even win. I merely want to be right for truth's sake. But there is a lot of crookedness around us; there is a lot of dishonesty in each of us. Some folks, however, hate this about themselves, doing everything they can to refine themselves with fire, all in an effort to stand purified, and to stand straight. It is a sad fact that there are other people who could care less about purity.
One of my favorite films is the moving and innocent, Brother Sun, Sister Moon, Franco Zeffirelli's 1972 paean to Sts. Francis and Clare of Assisi. While the film is nearly a flower-power look at the great St. Francis --even being a bit like a trip to the wonderful Wizard of Oz-- it is a lovely film, full of grace and purity. But when the film was released, the Boston Globe printed a bullet-review that defined Brother Sun, Sister Moon as "a film only a saint could love." The Globe gave the film only one star.
The intimation in the Globe's review is that there is something intrinsically revolting about being a saint, making those of us who enjoyed the film feel shame for our inartistic love of mediocrity. While I can take the Globe's opinion as flattery, proclaiming as I must that their statement proves I am a saint, I want to scream out the rather obvious questions: "Who would then not like this film? sociopaths? perverts? sinners? And who would not want to be a saint anyway? What kind of person scoffs at sainthood?"
It is not popular, this idea of purity. Purity is deemed trite, quaint, charming. It is for the dolt, or the shrillish prude. It is even deemed impossible. In the opinion of many, holiness is not for the wise, the sagacious, the cultural elite. Purity is not for the artist. It is for the one-star fool.
Have you ever thought about holiness? Have you ever asked yourself, "What person in his or her right mind would not desire holiness?" It's a great question. And it is especially interesting in light of the absolute dearth of holiness in literature and film. What was the last best-selling novel you read that dealt with holiness? How many films can you recall that presented holiness as something of infinite value? (If you can think of any, please let me know what they are.) How is it that holiness is not part of our culture's artistic and moral ideals? Why the blind eye, or the mocking laugh, at holiness? Has holiness ever hurt anyone?
But I ask nothing of any real import, at least not in the midst of political wrangling and a difficult war.
I am wondering about what you like here when you come visit. Do you prefer my political commentary, or do you prefer my more distinctly religious op-eds? Just to let you know, my religious essays receive far more hits than my more mundane, socio-political commentaries. Should I forgo the political in this blog? Should I start another blog, one that focuses especially on religious matters?
It would be good to hear what you think. This is not an invitation by me to focus on me: I want to focus on you, what you like. Should I opine about George Bush and Howard Dean, or should I comment on prayer, worship, prophecy, or Holy Scripture? Should I be more overtly and plainly Christian, or should I continue to add to the odd collection of literary knick-knacks posted here? What do you want?
I am not suggesting that anything will change, or that anything will change soon. I am just a bit stuck. Perhaps someone could even give me an idea to explore, or a question with which I can wrestle. Not that I lack for ideas. I've got plenty. But are they helpful? Who knows?
I eagerly await your thoughts.
Peace.
BG
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
The Emerging Informality: An Epilogue (At Last)
[Finally, at last, an epilogue (puns intended) to my series on informed formality, parts I, II, III, and IV. I hope you have enjoyed the series; I petition you to express your thoughts. My thanks to Milton Stanley at Transforming Sermons and Jason Coriell of Sunshine Church for sharing this series with others. And I want to thank everyone who commented here and elsewhere for their provocative thoughts, all of which helped me shape my arguments. I am nothing on my own.]
Did you ever learn in writing class that you should never begin an essay with a question? Well, if not, let me commit such a sin here today; let me model bad form. But if you do remember learning such a rhetorical detail, why would it have been taught? Why all the rest of the laborious emphasis on form, on syntax and grammar, on precision in spelling and diction, associated with learning to write? In short, why is there any form to writing at all?
Perhaps there is formalism in writing solely to avoid such things as visCos lemen vas7so for four non8¶. In other words, to avoid confusion and chaos. Formalism in writing not only protects clarity and meaning, it helps create clarity and meaning when both are threatened or lost. Similarly, formalism in diction, in the choice and meaning of words, protects against amphibolous distortions, as each writer commits to using language with formal accuracy. Of course, this is not to insist that language remain forever static or free of dynamism. For language is indeed a moving and growing thing; new words emerge all the time. But often new words emerge not because someone is reaching for new concepts; new words emerge because of the neglect, misunderstanding and misuse of the language already in use. "Irregardless" is a good example of a new, highfalutin-sounding word used as a synonym for "regardless" or "irrespective," but it is the consequence of linguistic abuse. It is not a new concept generated by a creative mind.
My aim in this series has been to sound something of an alarm. I have challenged the opinion that the Christian Church needs to be more casual and informal in order to be more culturally and socially relevant. I've insisted that a casual approach to Christian worship is antithetical to Christian relevance: the Church, I believe, is its most "relevant" when it is in a very real sense irrelevant. When an idolatrous world finds the Church irrelevant to its consumption of worldly gods, chiding it as out of touch, the Church should receive this as flattery. For the Church should perceive itself firmly fixed on a frozen lake's stable shoreline, standing like a rescue worker who is being chided and mocked as "out of touch" by those who have fallen through idolatry's thin ice; the Church is flattered to know that it is itself not trapped in death's icy grip. Of course, like a rescue worker the Church might need to plunge into the frigid depths to help others, but it need not stay there long to prove its relevance, to prove that it identifies with the world's plight. The Church's struggles with its own sins are well known, but its strength is that it knows its own sins.
Spend two minutes in nearly any mall, or on any public bus; spend two minutes watching television, particularly the shows popular with the MTV generation; spend two minutes nearly anywhere in America, and you will see informality as commonplace as asphalt. Casual attire is reaching new lows, even when it has reached new heights as major designers continue creating lines of clothes that are pre-worn, pre-torn. Modesty, that great virtue protected by formality, is anathema to America's immodest boast that immodesty proves authenticity of self-expression and personality. Bearing one's underwear, or one's darkest sexual moments, is now a sign of validation and individuation, of being genuine and real. Paris Hilton, Pamela Anderson, Chloe Sevigny, Madonna, Tommy Lee, Bill Clinton, Rob Lowe -- each of these have only benefitted from their indiscretions, turning modesty on its head.
You have heard such adages as "You are what you eat," or, "You are what you read." The point of these adages is utterly simple: whatever you do you will be. Last night I read a Rolling Stone interview with the already mentioned actress Chloe Sevigny, who admitted that if she portrays a "bitch" in a movie, she actually becomes an unpleasant person during production: She is what she acts. This little fact is powerfully true. Treat yourself like a bum, and you will be very much bumming. Talk show figure Bo Dietl, the self-made security guru who uses his wealth to clothe himself richly, told Don Imus yesterday that if a person dresses with self-respect then others will treat that person with respect. Dress nice -- be nice, and get nice in return. It is almost a law of nature. Most of us avoid the mangy dog.
Moreover, psychology has recommended that if you feel "out of love" with your spouse, pretend to be in love, romancing your way as if you were in the earliest stages of courtship, and your "out of love" feeling will disappear. Others have advised that smiling, even when forced, will make a sour person feel better; and that frowning will indeed make even the soul frown. Laughter is indeed the best medicine, perhaps most immediately needed by the cheerless. You are what you laugh about.
The Church is ostensibly the presence of Christ on the earth, His body; even His Bride. But if the Church sees itself as little more than Christ's brother, it is far more likely to become not a prince, but the Billy to Christ's Jimmy Carter. No doubt Our Savior was casual, but not necessarily in all things. No doubt He was informal. But was He informal about worshipping God? And was His very real body ever informal or casual in its functions? If we are that body, should we not function with that body's rich formality, with its wondrous sequences and protocols?
***
Where is the Kingdom of God? What does it look, sound or feel like? Is the Kingdom like an Abercrombie & Fitch; is the Bride of Christ like Victoria's immodest Secret? Can you show me where I might find that Kingdom? And if I find it, will there be any expectations of loftiness there, any great heights I must scale to raise myself above the casual life that is so easy to lead?
What were the warnings by the Catholic Church regarding birth control? They were sure and accurate: if you do this, if you "control birth", sex will be cheapened, treated casually as a recreational pasttime. It will remove responsibility; it will remove commitment and even romance. Make sex about orgasm, and pleasure and fulfillment will be sought in a complex of deadends.
Laugh if you will, it matters little, but the Pope was right: Contraception has only enslaved humanity to empty idols. And the rather protestant dissolution of sacraments and sacramentalism, of formality of symbol and act, has led to the demise of the sacrament of marriage, encouraging everyone, straight or gay, to define marriage in existential, non-transcendent terms: marriage is about whatever you want it to be about. Gay marriage proponents have not embraced the Church's idea of sacrament, knowing as they do that gay marriage cannot be sacramental. So they jettison sacramentalism, a rejection-slip many of us heterosexuals handed to marriage long ago through pre- and extra-marital promiscuity and divorce. (It is no accident that the Church that is the most sacramental is the Church that stands the firmest against gay marriage, divorce, abortion, war, and the death penalty.) But the message is clear and no joke: remove formality and even more informalities will follow.
I shall stop now, drawing this rather formal series to a close. There is life in taking life seriously: there is wonder in formality, in symbol and sacrament. Let us not lose our ability to speak with eloquence solely so that we may speak in the common parlance. Each has its place, but only one sets a standard that elevates. It is easy to be casual, as easy as saying "ain't." Let us with grace choose the harder way.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
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